


Another World: SHERSTRADE "A Slice of Life and Crime"

by SHFF



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Angst, Bottom Greg Lestrade, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Complicated Relationships, Conflict, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Drama & Romance, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Love, M/M, Male Homosexuality, POV Greg, POV Multiple, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Omniscient, Plot, Romance, Serious, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, Storytelling, Submission, Tension, Top Sherlock, Violence, and
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHFF/pseuds/SHFF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everyone had one of those little hobbies that they didn't like to talk about. Greg’s was drawing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "A Slice of Life and Crime"

**Author's Note:**

> ((Written as an RP originally prompted by 'Partner' / 'DarkReaperss' on Omegle.))
> 
> ***If there are any errors I apologize. I went through and edited, but may have missed things here and there.***

PARTNER: Everyone had one of those little hobbies that they didn't like to talk about. Greg’s was drawing. He’d been told when he was in school and taking the mandatory art class or two that he was good, and the few that had seen him doodling absently when bored of the mountains of paperwork that came with cases had told him the same. He almost always had a sketchbook with him, and filled them up quickly with various sketches and drawings that he did when bored, or just in need of something to do as he thought, or when he needed something to help get rid of stress.

Today, however, his art was giving him stress. On his last visit to 221B, to drop off some case files for Sherlock, he hadn't realized his latest sketchbook had gotten mixed in. Understandably, the DI had panicked. He drew largely to relieve stress, and for some time Sherlock was giving him stress in so many ways... The man was gorgeous. Handsome, and stunning. How could he not be attracted? Especially since he’d been long divorced and was single… and his art reflected as much. There was an array of innocent pictures, then some portraits of Sherlock, then several not nearly as innocent pictures drawn of the two of them together. Fantasies, one could say. Ones that he’d been sure would never happen so he’d drawn them on paper when alone. Many weren't all that vanilla either…

It was why he was, almost an hour later, knocking on the door in a manner he hoped couldn't be seen as frantic while he waited for someone to answer. Thankfully he was fairly certain John was out of town for a medical convention, so at least the doctor wouldn't have seen anything. Honestly, he hoped that Sherlock hadn't looked. Or at least, if he had, he’d seen the uninteresting pictures and stopped. Greg didn't know what he’d do otherwise…

ME: Sherlock sat perched in his arm chair, knees hunkered to his chest with palms pressed characteristically flat. His finger tips were grazing his chin, and he was... thinking. He had the case files Lestrade brought over strewn about in front of him, organized and in a specific order. He could hear he DI's fist against the door to 221B, and it was only a matter of time before Mrs. Hudson answered and ushered him up. He knew what the man had come back for, in fact it was curled between his thighs and abdomen at the moment. The hard spiral bound art book filled with many pages dedicated to the consulting detective. Drawing's Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to make of in the sense that he'd never deduced Greg to be interested in men, or interested in himself...

"Yoo-hoo." Mrs. Hudson twisted the door-handle a minute or so later, revealing herself and the absolutely clammy looking DI. Sherlock flicked his gaze between them both, and after a moment the landlady – perplexed by the obvious tension – dismissed herself.

PARTNER: Greg watched her go, and silently thanked whatever God might exist that she had when he caught sight of what Sherlock had close at hand. His sketchbook... He swallowed thickly, and slowly took a few steps into the flat before coming to a rest and crossing his arms over his chest.

The DI blamed it on the general helplessness he felt with his attraction to Sherlock, but for whatever reason, most of his drawings of the two of them together had the consulting detective so very clearly in control of the scenes depicted... It served to leave him both a touch confused as to where it all actually came from in his subconscious, as well as embarrassed of it. Especially now that he knew Sherlock had seen them...

"I uh..." He cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure of what to say. He half-expected ridicule, sharp insults or even disgust to be shown towards him. Maybe a bit of all three.

ME: The consulting detective's breathing remained even. His turquoise eyes fixed on Greg's dark brown as he stared, then stared some more. It was nearly a minute of silence before Sherlock's head did that distinctive little sputter, snapping out of his train of thoughts...

After returning to London, the detective had come to appreciate his friends more than he had in the past. He had held his tongue when Molly brought Tom by, held his tongue when she eased back into her flirtations with him once their engagement had ended. He'd even managed to patch up Mary and John somehow when the truth about her had come out. Their daughter was two now, and John had retired from 'field work' with Sherlock after being kidnapped, tortured, and nearly killed before they'd put Moriarty to an end once and for all. Still, his best friend came by often, and would help him hash out details on the cases the DI presented him with. Nothing quite like Moriarty had risen against Sherlock since, although the files sat before him right now did detail the workings of a very successful serial killer.

The younger detective finally stood, gripping onto the art pad and moving a few paces towards Greg. "I didn't know you draw," he lied, extending it outward. That was something he'd noticed ages ago. The distinct bulge on the mans middle finger that indicated a high frequency of pencil/pen use. The smears of graphite on the tips of his fingers, and along the pinky side of his writing hand. Still, all he'd assumed from it was that the DI sketched when he got bored at work... He had never guessed that the man drew to the skill level that he was now so clearly capable of, or drew such explicit things... of him. Had Sherlock stereotyped the pepper haired man to the extent of filtering out anything he considered non-important? Or, was Lestrade simply skilled at putting on fronts? Sherlock wasn't entirely sure, and true to his character, did not like not knowing...

PARTNER: Greg was quick to accept the sketchbook back when it was offered out to him, and he tucked it tightly under an arm. Self-conscious as he swallowed, mouth having gone very dry. At least there hadn't been any yelling or screams of disgust, or loathing. That was something to be thankful for, wasn't it? After all, Sherlock had scarcely ever shown any interest in anyone, and often stated how he found sexual activity generally unnecessary, and here the DI was drawing scene upon scene, little fantasy upon fantasy of himself giving up a measure of control and power to this impossibly, attractive man.

"I don't... I don't really tell many people I do. At all... Ever," the DI murmured, taking a half-step back to create a small amount of distance, feeling as if he was slowly being taken apart under Sherlock's careful gaze. He wasn't exactly one that came off as being able to draw, or do anything even halfway artistic. Throw in some lewd and dirty drawings of him being submissive to a gorgeous man and he was a whole new puzzle wasn't he?

ME: Sherlock thought very carefully, and very quickly to himself for a another few moments. He wanted nothing more than to put the awkwardness behind them. To push the surprisingly detailed and realistic images from his mind and allow things to continue on as if he'd never seen them at all. Of course, that wouldn't be entirely possible, and of course, he'd be making all sorts of deductions every time he talked with, or saw Lestrade from this morning on. Still, the detective couldn't risk losing his connection to the police force by asking the barrage of questions at the point of his mind. And, he didn't want to risk his friendship with the DI either. Actually, in recent years the mist haired man had improved a touch at observing, and actually, Sherlock could use another set of eyes on the papers laid out in front of him.

"You've reviewed this all, already..." The consulting detective gestured to the files spread across his floor. "What do you make of it?"

PARTNER: Greg shifted his weight slowly, not entirely certain if he wanted to stay any longer. The book tucked under his arm was half the reason that he always raced out of the flat as soon as he needed to drop something off, if it didn't require him to stay. Especially if the man was in the middle of his riding crop related experiments, and it was honestly a wonder that Sherlock had never noticed or at least never mentioned that he'd always been flustered whenever he'd seen the consulting detective with it.

"Well..." Greg started, looking about the files on the ground quickly before selecting the one filled with pictures of the victims – also glad to at least have a change of subject. "See these yet?" he questioned, showing the other several glossy pictures of various people with their eyes, tongues, and ears mutilated.

"I dunno... but it reminds me of those monkeys – okay, don't give me that look. Y'know, 'see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil'? We've been working to get positive IDs on some of the victims, and so far we've found quite a lot of them were police informants at some point of another – even though quite a few of them haven't tipped off anyone in years. I'd be willing to bet the rest turn out to be too, but so far there hasn't been a clear link between the crimes they witnessed and went to the police to report, or tip off, and the other victims." He'd used to be an informant in his younger days, so he wanted to help the people being picked off. It had been during his 'rebellious youth stage' that most people didn't seem able to believe he'd had. When he was a punk, and finally got picked up by a DI that told him that he was smart, and that he needed to get his life in gear. He'd helped report some things afterwards (not right away, but still...) before getting clean and working to become an officer.

ME: "Yes, of course," Sherlock replied, in response to everything the DI had just rattled off. Greg was correct, although he'd missed a few things. "Someone killing off police informants..." the consulting detective trailed off, eyeing the suited man.

Sherlock cast his gaze up and down Lestrade's height, breathing in sharply with a small head shake. Still nothing... No indication of his being bisexual – he couldn't be gay, he'd been attracted to his ex-wife. "Perhaps revenge, then." Sherlock continued, pressing the sides of his steepled fingers to his mouth. "For members of his organization being convicted. Waiting long enough to separate himself from the killings, possibly to make it appear as some random mad man's vendetta against 'good-doer's'." Sherlock snatched up a few documents, whipping eyes across their pages. "A jailed mob boss with outside connections. The killer could be being instructed." 

PARTNER: Greg nodded in response. "All right... I'll see what my team can find out." There were more bodies piling up, and they needed to get this killer off the streets as soon as possible. If it was mob related then he'd be able to pull from some of his old contacts from his younger days if he was really that desperate... but he didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to anyone else by digging through the past. Besides, if it was mob related, then for all he knew he could be an eventual target. Something that he didn't share with Sherlock as he glanced over the pictures once more.

ME: "I'll make some tea," the consulting detective announced, after watching Greg thumb through the photo's for a minute or so. He refused to inquire about the drawings. He absolutely could not inquire about the drawings, though it was driving him absolutely mad that they weren't being addressed, as it was clear to them both that he had seen them. He also couldn't let the DI head out just yet. It was bothering him all too deeply that he couldn't get a read on Lestrade's sexual preferences, and it'd be far too big a distraction from the case if he couldn't deduce it. "Particulars on sugar or milk?" The younger man asked, slipping off his silky blue robe and draping it over a chair. In honesty he knew already, but was attempting to be polite. He'd been working on his 'people skills' between cases, as sort of a personal challenge.

PARTNER: "Just a touch of milk, thanks. No sugar." Greg answered absently, lost in his thoughts. He continued flipping through the case files, his sketchbook still firmly tucked underneath his arm, but he wasn't thinking about the case anymore. Rather, he was thinking of the fact that Sherlock had yet to respond negatively to the drawings he'd seen at all. If anything, neither of them had responded much to the sketches and while Greg was perfectly content for that to continue, he knew better than to actually believe it would be a possibility. He had plenty of experience with guys from his youth. Bisexuality had never bothered him, and he'd gotten into quite a few crazy things, but he'd never realized he'd gotten off on something like submitting until he'd met Sherlock Holmes. He sighed under his breath and set the files down again.

ME: Sherlock waited patiently for the tea to brew. He'd bought a fancy tea maker recently, lazy in his having to make it himself, now that Ms Hudson was getting too old to force into doing things anymore. He was finally gaining a grasp on how to 'be' with people, finally at the beginnings of his forties was he truly allowing himself to care about other's outside of being able to manipulate and use them as tools. It had been a long road, quite the journey that began his first few days and nights back in London. His two year absence filled with tracking down criminals, spending time in many harsh conditions, dealing with some of the worst scum alive... It had changed him. Then, upon returning and being met with overwhelming reception from the people who loved and cherished him, so thankful for him to be alive and well. Even John who had expressed it in anger... Every bit of it had touched the detective, and his heart had moved in ways he never thought to be possible.

The tea was streaming out the dispenser, filled half way up the pitcher now as steam billowed off the hot liquid. Greg was staring out through a gap in the curtains at the front of the flat, and Sherlock watched him tentatively. Something about the man standing there reminded the consulting detective about... something... He stared blankly for a moment, trying to recall what was nagging at his memory, then it finally clicked. 'Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very very lucky, he might even be a good one.' Those were Lestrade's words, repeated to Sherlock by John at some point, and the connection to the consulting detective's remembering them was in line with his previous reflections. Was he indeed, with all his new found patience and understanding, a 'good man', now?...

The machine beeped done and Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts.

PARTNER: Unknowingly, Greg's mind had started to wander along similar planes as Sherlock's. His thoughts drifting from his drawings to the hell that was the two years after, 'The Fall.' He had several tear warped sketchbooks from those two years. Several viciously crossed out sketches and torn pages from his grief. Grief that might have meant something a bit more than common attraction, but Greg had never admitted it to himself. He certainly hadn't at the low point in his life. It hadn't helped at the time because he'd felt so responsible for everything. For all the things that had lead to Sherlock's alleged suicide, and he had worked hard to try and clear the man's name as best he could afterward. Anderson's constant insistence that the consulting detective was alive hadn't aided in the slightest. If anything it had made things so much worse to constantly be reminded of the man...

But, when Sherlock had come back? Alive and (more or less) well? He'd thought he'd finally gone off the deep-end for a moment and cracked. Having the man back had been like some cliche breath of life pumped back into him, and for the first time in two years he'd been enthusiastic for cases, and working and going out. His drawings started up in full force again, but he didn't feel like each pen or pencil stroke ripped his heart out. He was glad to have Sherlock back and to be able to keep his friendship... and that was part of the reason he'd been so panicked when he realized he'd left the sketchbook. After everything they'd been through, from their first meeting where he had pulled the man out of a gutter and heard the first deductions from the then junkie. To the times he'd had the man sleep at his flat to detox, to the cases they'd worked, The Fall, Moriarty, and everything else... He didn't want anything to be ruined because he was so hopelessly attracted to the brilliant, tantalizingly beautiful Sherlock Holmes.

Greg silently looked up from the window when he heard the beeping from the kitchen, and he padded to lean against the entry way as he watched the other work on pouring and mixing the tea.

ME: Sherlock fixed his own cup first, a table spoon of sugar with a small splash of milk. He was just buying time now, pondering a hundred ways to read the things he needed off of Greg before stepping out to do his investigations.

With both cups in hand he walked towards the DI, extending his visitor's drink outward. The consulting detective purposely holding Greg's dish with fingers laced the whole way around it... Lestrade would need to brush hands with him to exchange it, and Sherlock hoped it would be enough to get at least some sort of tell to show.

PARTNER: Greg reached out and accepted the offered cup with a murmured thanks, cheeks coloring a bit as their fingers collided and his grip on his sketchbook tightened once more before he almost hurriedly sipped at the drink. As if that would somehow hide the fact he was still feeling more than a bit flustered beneath the surface.

ME: There. That was something. Sherlock stepped almost giddily towards the windows at the front of his flat. A small rosy dash upon the DI's fare cheeks, a tell, finally a tell. Not that the consulting detective needed one to know how the man felt, that was already made more than clear by the art in the book gripped tightly to his side. Still, Sherlock felt satisfied that he was able to read it, even if it was merely by way of something small. The consulting detective sipped his tea as he stared at the people scuttling below, moving onto thoughts and game plans for his day of clue searching.

PARTNER: With the silence that had fell between them, Greg found himself not entirely willing to break it again. They'd talked over the case, and now he had tea which would keep him longer for politeness. As soon as he was done he planned to dismiss himself and leave with a few parting words to have Sherlock call if he comes up with anything else, and that the DI would keep him similarly updated on any leads with whom the victims could be connected with. He just had to last a little longer... then he could make his escape and work to never make the mistake of leaving his sketchbook as he had again.

ME: The curly haired man thought quietly to himself for a few minutes, coming up with an itinerary for his schedule then frustrating himself over his lack of John Watson. It wasn't nearly as fun to go it alone, to have no one to discuss with, to have no one to show off too... Sherlock was one to need constant self validation and praise. It had taken him years to admit it, but it wasn't something he could just switch off either.

The detective let out a long audible sigh, then a thought crossed his mind and he found himself glancing back at Greg Lestrade. /Perhaps.../ Yes, yes perhaps he could kill not two, but three birds with one stone today... More time for deductions of the DI's sexuality, a way to show that their friend/working relationship wasn't tarnished by his seeing the explicit artwork, and of course, to have someone along to point out his brilliance.

"Are you busy?" Sherlock spun towards the man. "Today, I mean. Do you need to return to the Yard'?" Sherlock paused for a moment, "I mean, do you have any office work that needs done? You'd still be working this," he gestured to the files strewn about, "If you came along with me." 

PARTNER: Having been lost in his own thoughts, Greg blinked and stared at Sherlock a bit blankly for a moment before he shook himself out of it and paid attention. Go along with Sherlock? The man wanted him to go out and work the case with him? Even before John he'd only done that once or twice before, in actually following the detective around, the last time being Baskerville with the three of them searching for the so-called 'hound'.

"I uh... No, I don't. I just need to call my team. To have them start looking up information for our potential leads." It was only until after the words had left his mouth that Greg realized that he should have answered with anything else other than the complete truth. This meant he wouldn't have any reason to deny being around Sherlock, and while before he would have dropped everything (maybe not everything) to run off with Sherlock on an investigation for a case he wasn't so sure now. The fact that they still hadn't talked about the drawings was weighing on his mind if only because Sherlock acted as if he hadn't seen them at all. Most people would have said something about them by now. Then again, the consulting detective had established for the world long ago that he wasn't most people.

ME: "Good, then. Very good." Sherlock placed his palms together with a smirk. He was pleased with himself. Far too pleased if he were being honest. "We'll leave shortly." He scampered off to his room to change, and fetch his coat and scarf.

Once undressed, then redressed – finishing his re-clothing by buttoning up his purple shirt, the detective scanned the room to fix eyes on the scarf John and Mary had bought him for Christmas. It was red like the seams of his coats buttons. Mary's idea, said it matched better than the blue...

He crossed to lift the sash from his bed post, smoothing a thumb over the material... Cashmere... 20%, and Viscose 80%. He hadn't worn it outside of Christmas day... It almost felt... wrong. Since he'd been sporting blue for generations. Then again, today was partially about being kind to people. About treating them fairly, and about understanding... He folded the cloth in half and strung it around his neck, looping the tattered end through the opening and adjusting it to the right amount of tightness. He completed his outfit with the heavy coat he'd owned since his twenties. His favorite coat – the original of the style he'd had duplicates made of – rewarded to him by a peculiar woman whom he solved his first major case for.

"Ready?" Sherlock smiled, re-emerging from the bedroom. He crossed the kitchen and gripped for the the connecting door out, with a slight pause. "If you're hungry we can stop off somewhere. I don't eat when I'm thinking..." He snuck a quick glance at Lestrade. "But you already know that." He gave the man his famous wink, immediately realizing just how inappropriately that could be interpreted given the current circumstances. Still, he couldn't take it back so he simply shrugged it off, making his way down the winding flight of stairs.

PARTNER: Before Greg could even think to get a word in edgewise the impossible man was already racing off to change to leave him standing awkwardly in the sitting room. With a heavy sigh, he finished off his tea and set the empty dish in the kitchen. He went ahead and made a quick call to his subordinates while he waited, and by the time Sherlock was striding back out the DI was pocketing his phone again, and when he looked up... he promptly stared.

In all the years that he'd known Sherlock Holmes, he was fairly certain that he'd only see the man wear anything but a blue scarf once. Maybe twice if he was simply forgetting an occasion, and the brilliant red around his neck caught the older mans attention fairly quickly. It looked good on the man, for one. It matched the buttonholes of his signature coat and fit in well, even if he'd previously thought the cool blue helped accentuate his skin and eyes – and for Christ's, what was he doing thinking like that? The DI tried to shake it off and made to follow Sherlock, but then the man was doing one of those little winks in his direction and the silver haired detective was fairly certain that his heart skipped a beat as he was left standing frozen in the kitchen. Thankfully, Sherlock had already run off before he could see that reaction.

"Stop being a bloody teenager," he muttered to himself, before quickly catching up to the longer legged man.

ME: Sherlock trotted out the door to 221B. It was 11:40AM. Lestrade would need to eat – Sherlock had deduced that he hadn't since breakfast – and if they... The detective stared upward as he made some calculations... If they only spent twenty minutes picking up a bite, then they'd have plenty of time to make it through all the shops employed with possibly former gangsters before closing time... and then move on to stalking the killer.

It had been way back, back before Sherlock really got into detective work – god, back during his early days of Uni – when the 'Blood Mists,' or so was their street name, were disbanded and their 'mob boss' sentenced to life in prison for an exorbitant list of crimes. The consulting detective had a web formed in his mind palace on them, linking the murdered informants to have all been active during that time. It was clever, a very long con, if that man were indeed behind the killings. Such a far separation. It was no wonder the police hadn't yet looked back that far.

Sherlock raised a pale hand at the curb, Greg making it out to him shortly after. It wasn't long before one of the dark box vehicles came to a stop at their side, and per Sherlock's attempts at being kind, he held open the door for the DI.

"After you," he insisted politely.

PARTNER: Greg tried not to stare, at both Sherlock's appearance that was still a bit odd (but attractive,) and the fact that the detective was holding the door. /Someone's trying hard today,/ he thought to himself as he slid into the offered cab. If he hadn't been in such a rush he would've drove to the flat on his own, but as it were his car was still at NSY. He'd been out front on a smoke break with Donovan when he realized the sketch book was missing, and immediately waved down a cab. It wasn't as if he couldn't get it later...

Once they were settled and moving, having let Sherlock give a destination as the DI had no clue where they were headed, he glanced back at the detective. "What's the plan, then?" he questioned, hoping to get at least a rough layout and maybe some information. He didn't know what Sherlock was thinking, but he'd seen the expression currently on the younger man's face before. The one that said he had a fairly good idea, a good lead, but wasn't planning on sharing until he was absolutely sure he could show off. At least, that was the end Greg was normally on. He knew that John would be told as the two sauntered away from his crime scenes or his office at NSY, so he was hoping he'd stay in the loop for once if he were running about with the man.

ME: "First, lunch." Sherlock smiled with lifted eyebrows. "Something you can eat quickly." The consulting detective continued. He realized he wasn't quite being courteous with this, but they had to keep on schedule. "Won't have enough time to stop everywhere else, if not," he made sure to add, then leaned close to Greg to keep the cabbie from hearing. "Ever hear of the "Blood Mists?" 

PARTNER: Greg was following along well, but when the other detective mentioned the Blood Mists? His eyes narrowed and he stared forward nervously. If that wasn't a tell he didn't know what was... but he used to run around with a few people in his punk days that were in that gang. He had leaked information once he'd started to get his act together, and if Sherlock was bringing them up...  
"Yeah, actually, what about them?" He questioned just as quietly.  
ME: "Well, obviously," Sherlock started with his typical condescension, then paused to rephrase. "Their former head may be behind the murders. Instructing someone on the outside as I mentioned before." The consulting detective continued to explain, including the fact that the deceased informants were all actively working at the time the gang was disbanded. "Could be a long shot, but it adds up." He finished, lacing his fingers into a fist. "But first, where would you like to grab lunch?" 

PARTNER: The murders could be connected to the Blood Mists... Greg sorely hoped that Sherlock was wrong for once. It wasn't even because of the threat that he could get too involved, but that he knew that the head of that gang had been dangerous. Ruthless. If it was him behind this revenge ploy, then they were going to have their hands full. More so than before, and it was already difficult enough to catch this killer.

Greg almost told the other detective he wasn't hungry, but instead conceded and named a spot on a corner not too far away that made good sandwiches. Quick, easy, and cheap. He was a regular, as it wouldn't be the first case he'd been on to stop by in.

ME: The shop bell chimed as the consulting detective entered and twirled. He gripped the metal handle bar, again holding the door for Greg, although this time he slid his phone from his pocket to check the time. /Good./ he thought. They had fifteen minutes they could waste – ah, use to allow the DI to eat lunch – before heading back out. He hated that he had to catch himself, but he was giddy with excitement. This was the first major case to come up in god knows how long, and it was a case worthy of being called, "The Game." A case the consulting detective could flex his ever anxious mind with. A case that –

"Sherlock? Greg?"

Sherlock's head snapped left to see the mousy Molly Hooper sat at a booth near the front door. /No. No!/ The consulting detective forced the most realistic pleased smile he could manage as the woman returned the gesture. And was suddenly finding it very hard to hold back his old self...

He wanted to shrug her off, tell her they were busy and usher Greg to the counter as he would have John if this had been years ago, but instead he clenched his jaw. Instead he sucked in the deepest breath he could muster, as slowly as he could muster, and bit back the irritation that they would likely be thrown off schedule by this random encounter.

"Hello, Molly," the detective greeted her as she made her way to them. "Day off?" He couldn't believe himself, managing to remain normal despite... despite... He could feel the corner of his eye twitching.

PARTNER: Dramatic bastard. Greg couldn't help the thought as he watched the lanky detective saunter into the little shop. Then again, the man wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes if he didn't have a flair for the dramatic. He merely sighed inaudibly, still just a bit happy to be working a case with him at all. It was helping him to get over the awkwardness of the morning. Speaking of... He really needed to stop off to his flat and drop his bag off since he now had the sketchbook with him. Though, he wasn't sure if Sherlock would grant him time for that...

He glanced up when he heard the familiar voice, but really Sherlock was the only one that connected it to belonging to Molly, as he'd only been half-paying attention. His surprise at the encounter grew when Sherlock seemed to be attempting to have a somewhat normal conversation with the woman, and he watched over his shoulder while going to the counter and ordering quickly and from memory. It only took him a minute or so before he was back at Sherlock's side and glancing between the two of them.

As if sensing Sherlock's growing agitation, Greg waited only long enough for an opening. "How are you? By the way, Molly, I've been meaning to ask if you've gotten to the other bodies yet?" He had enough tact to keep his voice lowered enough to not be overheard, but not make it overly obvious he was doing so either. Talking about bodies in a sandwich shop so everyone could hear was a bit not good, but he had a feeling if the woman had anything it would keep him from hearing complaints about pointless conversation. Molly would know which bodies he was talking about as there were only the set of murder victims he'd seen her about recently.

ME: The mousy woman went slack jawed, if for just a brief moment. She did a quick head sweep from Greg to Sherlock, through the little shop to make sure no one had overheard, then back to Sherlock. The consulting detective gave her a small smile, before she fixed eyes on Greg's.

"I'm fine, thanks." She did her nervous little grin. "Um," she lowered her voice to a whisper. "It's my day off, but, if you need me to check them out today..." she trailed off, glancing to Sherlock for some sort of queue. It was obvious to the consulting detective that her crush for him was still there. It always would be there to some degree, so long as she continued contact with the man.

"No, no need at all." Sherlock decided after catching tells from the DI. The older man had just been wondering. He was grinning now, and... it was an amused smile. Perhaps at Molly's crush. Perhaps he was thinking also of his crush on the consulting detective? Sherlock couldn't quite deduce it, and again he was frustrated. But Greg had his sandwich none the less, and maybe they'd make it out on time after all. So he concluded that he'd have the rest of the day to figure out Lestrade, and therefore also concluded that he shouldn't allow himself to get further worked up. Then he remembered that answering other peoples questions wasn't socially acceptable, and his face scrunched into a series of straight lines.

PARTNER: Greg gave Sherlock a bit of a look when the man decided to cut in and answer for him, but he was more amused than anything else. He rose an eyebrow at the detective before refocusing on Molly, "Nah, I was just curious. You don't need to do anything."

The DI knew the poor woman would likely never get over her feelings for Sherlock, but Greg could sympathize. He wasn't really getting over his own attraction to to the man either, not even with time, if his drawings said anything at all. "We're just checking out some leads, so we should probably let you get back to it and leave you be." He added with a shrug and a small, friendly enough smile.

ME: They said their goodbye's. Sherlock reciprocating a small hug from Mrs. Hooper then watching as she made sure to embrace Greg too. Hugging the older man a tad longer as to try and hide that fact that she'd only done so to play off her hugging Sherlock.

On their way to the curb, now pondering his scarf that smelled faintly of Molly, he asked Greg if the red were truly that alarming. Molly had mentioned it while Greg bought his lunch – said it stood out nicely. The consulting detective glanced over to see the DI, mouth full of bread and deli meats. "Sorry." He blinked. "And sorry for, um... in there too." Sherlock still had trouble with apologies, so he hoped the older man would take his meaning.

PARTNER: As soon as they'd disengaged from the conversation with Molly, Greg was taking bites from his lunch. Partly because he really was hungry (admittedly he forgot to eat on cases sometimes, though unlike Sherlock he did eat when he remembered to,) but also because he knew Sherlock had been rather adamant on keeping a time schedule for this.

When the man himself looked back while Greg was mid-bite he rose an eyebrow in amusement at the other. Though, a very quick thought and mental image of a drawing where his mouth was full of something entirely different, and far more erotic, had the lightest tinge of red flush the back of his neck. Christ... he really was a bloody teenager at this point.

"S'alright, Sherlock." He shrugged once he'd properly chewed and swallowed. "Appreciate the apology though... and yeah, the red's a bit odd when we're all used to seeing you with blue. It looks good on you, though." A causal compliment on the man's appearance. That was safe, wasn't it?...

ME: "Odd," the younger man repeated, and lifted the scarf to stare at it. Really, he was thinking about Greg's compliment, wondering if it were mere politeness or more of his crush showing through. The DI was good at hiding things, and Sherlock couldn't read why. Though it wasn't as if the consulting detective had always been skilled at telling those things. Molly had been blatantly obvious, right up to that Christmas party before he ever realized it about her. Before then he'd simply thought she was, much like himself, desiring of affirmation and praise... 

Still, and since, he'd gotten better at seeing when people felt things – especially for himself. Now he could read it with much more certainty, and with almost as much clarity as he could read anything else. And then there was Greg Lestrade... Drawing erotica of them for god knows how long, but due to the quality of the pictures, and the precise detailing... Sherlock imagined it must have been for some time now. "Thank you," he remembered to add.

Soon after they were back in another cab, and heading for Soho. It'd been a while since the consulting detective visited that area for a case. The entertainment district of London once known for an overwhelming bit of promiscuity. It still had a few small sex shops scattered throughout it, but one of those was not where they were going. There was a particular venue called 'Club 49,' that the consulting detective wanted to drop by. It wouldn't be open for another few hours but they'd have cleaners in today, which meant the manager would almost certainly be there.

In fact, when the cab pulled up in front of the entrance there was already a hose snaked through the glass doors that disappeared deep into the establishment. A silver Sedan parked right out front along with the cleaning crew's van.

PARTNER: The silence that they'd lapsed into afterwards wasn't particularly uncomfortable. Greg wasn't overly bothered anyway as he was thinking. First about Sherlock's red scarf and how he should wear it more often, then of course inadvertently leading to thoughts of his pictures that had him subconsciously checking on his bag, followed up by the issue of the Blood Mists. He was debating on whether he should tell Sherlock about his old involvements with them or not, when they finally got the chance. He knew that some of his old mates would still be kicking and without actual charges, but he doubted that meeting up again would go over well considering his choice of career. That of course was assuming they'd even recognize the now silver-haired DI. So the silence continued as he thought about things such as that.

At least until they stopped outside Club 49, and he whistled lowly as the two of them approached the doors. "Christ, Sherlock," he mused, glancing at the other. "Really? Here?" Greg knew that this would be the first and last time he stepped into a place like this, and it certainly wouldn't ever be outside the realms of a case if he ever did again after.

ME: "What?" The consulting detective stared over at him. He ached an eyebrow, then glanced up at the large 49 mounted above. "Just a club. I didn't bring you to..." Sherlock thought he'd caught the drift. "Not that part of Soho, G...reg." That name still felt odd coming off of his lips. It'd taken him years to finally commit it to memory. "I mean, patrons do try and get away with things... as they do at all clubs..." He shut up, then. Lestrade would have understood and there was no longer a point in rattling off explanations. "Anyway," the detective continued, stepping around the rattling hose, and through the double doors.

It was loud inside due to the vacuum, and Sherlock scanned around the bright white room. Usually it was tinted orange, blue, or purple during business hours. He had come here once before, sometime in 2006 when it first opened with a woman he'd thought to be clever at the time. Sadly, he had been wrong... He stared at the rounded back corner where he'd been seated with her, and her group of friends. The moment she'd made advances, he exited more than a slight bit quickly. What a waste of time that had been. For a brief while she had seemed like a possible companion for cases. Oh well, it was in the past...

There were men in grey jumpers fussing about the main bar, though there was no sign of the manager, so the consulting detective led himself and the DI around and down to the room for live music. They searched about it a bit until they discovered the path to the private rooms – which were locked – then the main office. Sherlock turned his hand around and wrapped the wood a quick three times, then waited.

PARTNER: Greg went scarlet. "I... Sh-Sherlock I know its not... I know its not that kind of club..." he stammered before they walked in. The fact Sherlock had simply assumed that was what he'd meant at all, to Greg at least, spoke quite a bit about what the man likely thought of him now after seeing his drawings. He managed to get rid of the worst of the blush by the time they were looking about the inside of the club.

No, he'd known Club 49. Clubs in general weren't his cup of tea anymore so it felt odd to be in one. Even when it was more just a building plain and simple, without the atmosphere that came with the nightlife. He followed around after Sherlock, studiously avoiding eye contact after the embarrassment outside.

ME: There was some fumbling from the inside of the office, a person clearly startled by the knocks that came to the door. "Manager," Sherlock whispered. "Not a concern. A particular employee of his, on the other hand..." Sherlock finally noticed Greg's looking anywhere but at him and fell silent. He watched closely, searching for emotions to read, but could find none that explained the DI's behavior. When the door opened inward the consulting detective switched gears and promptly stretched out a hand. "Hello, Mr. Clark. Sherlock Holmes, and Greg Lestrade." He gestured to the DI. "We're here to –"

"Sherlock Holmes? In my bloody club?" Clark's face lit up with a wide grin. Gap toothed and balding but still incredibly uplifted... Sherlock shut off the rude thoughts and returned the gesture. The manager grasping a firm hand around the one he had extended and shaking vigorously, totally enthralled to have the taller man standing before him. "Haven't heard much of you since after Moriarty." It was true. Sherlock went on hiatus for a time after that whole ordeal, and hadn't been involved in many news-worthy cases since. His celebrity had died down considerably, though a handful of individuals were still rabid fans – this man apparently one of them.

"No," the consulting detective agreed but before he could get another word in Clark interrupted again, focusing on Lestrade this time.

"Pretty different from John Watson," he chuckled, reaching out to shake hands with the DI and shooting Sherlock a very conspicuous wink.

/Naturally./ The detective almost sighed. Many people paired him with John, even Mrs. Hudson had for years before the doctor and Mary got together. Actually, even then... Sherlock recalled John's story, of when he told the landlady about his going to propose to someone. Suddenly something clicked for Sherlock and he was staring – elevator eyeing the Manager of Club 49. Gay, clearly, ever so blatantly gay. His teal eyes flashed back to Lestrade. Nothing... He clenched a fist in frustration.

PARTNER: It still amazed Greg sometimes how Sherlock had the fanbase he did. Nevertheless, it certainly helped him at points as the consulting detective's fanatic little group that still followed what he did were normally more than willing to help their idolized detective in anyway that they could. When the manager turned to him and shook his hand, Greg was drawing similar conclusions to Sherlock without knowing it. Not that he cared for preferences so long as it didn't inhibit anything.

Greg shrugged at the comment without really caring, and was happy when his hand was returned to him. Sherlock had mentioned an employee, so he wondered idly if they'd even be here at the moment. If not, of course, they'd have to either track them down or actually come to the club later tonight. The things he'd do for a case – for Sherlock Holmes, really.

ME: Slowly, Sherlock explained the situation to his 'fanboy'... balding old man... person... Why was being kind so difficult during 'The Game?' He made sure to only include what was pertinent – that one of Clark's employee's quite possibly, actually very likely, used to be associated with the gang known as the Blood Mist's. That the man's name was Eric Greyson. That he was in his mid thirties and that –

"Eric?" Clark shook his head. "No, can't be?" He really and truly stopped to ponder it. After doing so he confided that the man was one to keep to himself – the 'sound guy' for bands and DJ's on music nights at the club. That he only spoke if spoken to and kept a low profile, but did an exceptional job at the venue. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the information, processing it into his mind palace for safe keeping. After the important information stopped, replaced by useless Greyson trivia, Sherlock politely as he could, apologized to Clark, informing him of their tight schedule and dismissed himself and Lestrade from the hallway, venturing back into the room arranged for live entertainment.

PARTNER: Greg was starting to understand what John felt like when, by the end of the case, the doctor was normally exasperated until Sherlock finally told him 'exactly' what was going on. The DI knew Greyson, so weren't they off to a good start? If he remembered right, the man had been one of the silent types opposed to some of his other mates that liked to use their place in the gang to intimidate people. It made them feel invincible. Those were just the people he'd been around of course, but Eric? He'd been the one to listen and watch. They'd talk every so often, and he'd talk with the other guys Greg had run with, but when it came down to it Eric was probably to most efficient out of all of them. Listened, watched, and he was smart. At least smarter than the average foot soldier of the Blood Mists

"So," the DI started casually, raising a brow at Sherlock and giving him a wry grin. "How many more fans of yours do y'think we'll run into today?" It was poking fun, but it was also light teasing.

ME: The detective paused, then poked his head out from behind the sound booth. Was that?... a remark on Clark's being gay, or did Lestrade simply want to know for some reason, or? Sherlock felt like he was back in one of his moments with John. One of those moments where the doctor scolded him for something he'd said or done, and told him it was 'Not good.' He felt that way, not in that he'd misbehaved, but because from Greg's tonality alone it had sounded like some sort of teasing, but, without a expression or body language to add to it... Sherlock was perplexed...

"Um." The consulting detective frowned with a shrug. He ducked back behind the podium of knobs and sliders, pulling out a small brush and petri dish, then sweeped up what appeared to be a mixture of dead skin cells, and possibly cocaine. Perhaps spilled from a small puncture in a plastic bag, stored here to keep an eye on it, then stuffed back into a pocket... Sherlock retrieved a small flashlight/black-light combo from his coat and shined it down onto the floor. Yes, indeed. He used a finger, pushing the trace amounts of white into a tiny pile atop the glossy paneled flooring. Cocaine, had been the Blood Mists product of choice.

PARTNER: Greg sighed to himself when he saw Sherlock's obvious confusion. He was beginning to have a creeping suspicion that the man was just over analyzing everything he said and did, now. Probably (definitely) because of the newfound aspect of drawing in the DI's life that Sherlock obviously had never suspected previously. Nevertheless... he did wish that things would smooth over and go back to how they normally were.

While Sherlock poked around the sound booth, Greg made a slow sweep of the equipment lying about. There wasn't anyone else in the room at the moment, but with all the devices out as they were and out of place, he assumed that someone must be working on either checking over, or re-positioning the things. Maybe for the preferences of whoever might be performing tonight, or maybe simply for maintenance, but regardless he wanted to be out again before someone – particularly Eric Greyson – came back to find the two detectives rooting around the place.

ME: Reappearing, the consulting detective quickly strode up next to Greg and whispered, "Cocaine. Trace amounts." He flashed the sealed petri dish. "That's what they did, drug trafficking. Distributing. Producing. Pure, very pure..." Sherlock recalled his sampling of their 'product' a few times back at Uni. His eyes glossed over at the sensation of the memory. The drug made his already superior mind all the more superior. Constant motivation, concentration, energy, no need for eating or sleep... He quickly slid the container into his coat and met eyes with Lestrade. "We'll be back later. Greyson will be working tonight." He glanced about the room as if it were obvious as to why, though this time he didn't think to offer an explanation. Instead he made his way out of the live room, back up to the main room still occupied by cleaners, then through the glass doors and out onto the curb without checking to see if the DI had followed.

PARTNER: Greg sighed when the man told him about the coke. Unbeknownst to the other, he was remembering his own experiences. Having his share of friends in the gang had given him cheaper prices when the lot of them had mainly been runners. The occasional enforcer palling up with him, though he'd generally stuck to keeping his distance. No reason to have something go wrong and get on someone's bad side, after all. Not that he hadn't been good for a fight, but he hadn't been in any gang to have people to back him up against someone like a Blood Mist that could find some buddies to help beat the shit out of someone.

The DI hurried to catch up with Sherlock after realizing the other had started off without him. He caught up by the main room and followed him to the street. He wondered, once again, if he should tell the other detective of his involvement. If Greyson did remember him, then it was probably for the best that the other man wasn't surprised by the news. Still... there wasn't exactly a good way to bring up to someone that he'd used to run around with members of a 'once-powerful-gang' and done drugs, and drank and smoked to excess, and stole when he was younger before becoming a generally well-respected Detective Inspector.

ME: Sherlock tapped his fingers in rapid succession against his thigh with one hand, while his other held up for a taxi. He was a mix of excited, anxious, and a tad fuzzy headed. His brain was buzzing with the new information, circulating around to make it's home in one of the endless rooms of his mind palace. It wasn't as if he couldn't process everything, he could, he hadn't lost touch. It was more so that he was trying to be a better man through it all, and understand another human being, that was... 'throwing him off.' He sighed inaudibly, and thumped a foot with impatience.

When a cab finally did stop for them, he forgot to hold the door for the DI and scooted over to the far seat. Sherlock stared out the window. Thinking. Pondering. Mind fully consumed by the case, and his unfortunately fond memories of the purest coke London had ever known... He wet his lips and breathed, then instructed the driver to another bar in Soho. And then another driver to some shop in China town. Then to another few locations near by, and as they passed with... driver number?... Sherlock hadn't been paying attention... over Westminster Bridge to reach the side which contained the London Eye, the consulting detective blurted out, "Stop the cab."

They could hoof it to the Eye from here which was Sherlock's intention. He wanted to look out at the locations they'd visited, to piece some things together. They'd encountered, (most definitely) a couple former Blood Mists in the shops, and the consulting detective needed to process. "Want to ride the ferris wheel?" He turned to Greg, remembering then how little attention he'd paid the man in the past few hours.

PARTNER: The next stops were largely consisting of Greg following Sherlock about, being left with cab fares, and mainly listening to the quick conversations the consulting detective had with various people. So far they were one's he didn't know, so there hadn't been much opportunity to at least vaguely explain his past involvements with the gang they were so thoroughly attempting to investigate.

A few hours and now quite close to the London Eye, Greg was honestly a bit surprised when Sherlock was suddenly asking if he wanted to go up in it. He rose an eyebrow at the man before shrugging. "If we have time to kill," he said. "You seem like you need some time to think anyway...?" It was phrased to be a bit of a leading question. An attempt to get the man to share what he was thinking thus far as, while it wasn't from lack of trying, Greg was being left in the dark with what was happening and he did want to help. It was his case after all. Technically, at any rate. He wasn't completely useless, and he wanted to pull his weight somehow. Nevertheless, he also knew that going up in the Eye would leave time for himself to catch a break and think over some things for himself.

ME: "Yes, exactly," Sherlock agreed, still on the high of his thoughts too much to notice the question at the end of Greg's sentence. However, on their walk down the closed off road to the ferris wheel he offered a bit of information on his own. "Two of the men in the past two hours. The man from the Thai Massage parlor in China Town, and the one from Kilgour – the tailor shop on Savile Row..." he trailed off, picturing their faces with upturned eyes. The half Thai, half Chinese man, with the thin goatee and mustache. The Irish man with tightly coiled auburn hair, working sales. The detective steepled his hands up under his chin, as they continued on their way.

Upon reaching the clearing, rowed with trees down the center of it's path, an idea popped into the consulting detective's head that might prove to be useful... and cautiously he turned to Lestrade to voice it. "You're..." He pinched his eyebrows together. He didn't need John Watson to tell him this was 'Not good,' though it truly might be beneficial to the case. "Fantastic with... detail..." Sherlock finished with a mumble. Maybe not the best choice of words to get at what he was getting at, but... "Do you remember them enough to sketch them? They're involved in all this. Former members..." He stopped then. Greg's artwork had scarcely been addressed all day, and the consulting detective didn't want to spoil anything. Part of his bringing Greg along was to... have a companion, sure, and for a bit of a second look, of course, praise too, and to make deductions of his sexuality –but, primarily... and most importantly, to show the man that he was not offended by his feelings for him.  
"Sorry," he quickly apologized. "You need not to, if it makes you uncomfortable..." The detective was fumbling over his words now. Did implying that it might, in fact, make the DI feel discomfort, imply... something?... He ruffled his fluff of dark curls with frustration, and turned to stare up at the Eye.

PARTNER: Really, Greg did want to be able to pull his weight on his own case. He did. Yet he honestly hadn't been expecting that Sherlock was going to ask him to draw the people they'd met. The process of finally asking as much was painful for both of them, apparently. The other detective's apparent search for finding a way to avoid offending or scaring him off really only doing what it was setting out to prevent. Then again, Greg knew he could draw them. It was just how his mind worked sometimes. All Sherlock would need to do was give him a few details to remember their faces by and then he'd be able to sketch them well enough.

"Um..." Points for the most intelligent comments were certainly wracking up fro the DI. "If you uh... tell me some of the features of who you want drawn I should be able to, no problem." He shifted a bit awkwardly, however, because he knew that the entire time he was drawing his mind would be on what had happened earlier in the day. Somehow he was fairly sure the same would go for Sherlock. What the DI didn't understand was why the other man would bring it up now? Did he have some kind of goal in this? It wasn't really making him feel more at ease, but Sherlock had even told him it wasn't necessary for him to draw if he felt uncomfortable. Was that a sign that the man didn't care? Or that he cared enough that he wasn't going to mention anything? Or maybe Greg was the one over analyzing now...

ME: Turning his lips inward with a breath, the consulting detective paused. He'd made Lestrade uneasy. He could hear it in his voice clearly enough without having to see him, and felt guilty about it. "Sorry," he muttered quietly, a small droplet of rain flicking against his pale forehead. He widened his teal eyes, and stared at the cloud covered sky. Not too dark. It wouldn't rain badly, not badly enough for the Eye to be shut down anyway.

Sherlock turned towards Greg, not quite making eye contact. "The two I mentioned," he continued. "They're former Blood Mists." He rattled off details, then on about his reading various tells from the men. About the Asian man having a small, tattooed blood drop in dot art fashion just above his cuff-line, and how the red-head had a bit of dried blood in his nostril along with the sniffles – telling of his coke addiction. The younger detective noted that neither of them were decidedly the killers, but that they might be working with the killer who Sherlock was currently betting to be Eric Greyson, or someone working directly with him.

PARTNER: Greg merely shrugged off the apology and listened intently to the other's explanations. It painted a good enough picture in his mind to be able to remember the faces of the men that Sherlock wanted drawn. As the man continued, however, and finally told Greg just what he believed was going on the DI paused. If Sherlock was right, and really more often than not he was, then Greyson could have plenty of motive to go after the both of them if the man /did/ recognize him.

"All right …" he murmured, glancing up as a few more splashes of rain water hit him. "Best go if we're going. I can't draw in the rain." He was trying for being lighthearted, but it fell a bit flat.

ME: The detective's strode over to the small line waiting at the Ferris Wheel. It didn't take long to be boarded. An event was taking place near by, attracting the bulk of tourists for a while, so it wasn't nearly as busy as usual. The two were placed in a pod entirely to themselves, which if there hadn't been an event, Sherlock would have tipped generously to obtain. They had thirty minutes for a full go around, plenty of time for Sherlock to think and Greg to sketch out the criminals.

As the pod took off, light rain pattering against the glass panels, Sherlock watched as Greg plopped down on the oval grated wood. He stared at the older man for a moment longer, then proceeded to pace around incessantly. Delving deep into his mind palace, save for quick glances out at the city and at times his phone, as they slowly rose.

PARTNER: Greg was entirely too grateful for the pod they managed to get to themselves. Even with Sherlock's pacing about it allowed for the detective to focus himself. He took out a second sketchbook; this one unused as the one he'd accidentally left was nearly filled, and he'd planned ahead for filling it. He turned to the first, crisp page, a few pencils and an eraser beside him, and began to draw.

It took twenty minutes into the revolution to finish the first, and be halfway done with the Irish fellow they'd met. Drawing had always come naturally to the DI, and after so long of working to improve and grow with his little hobby he'd gotten much better over the years. It wasn't too much longer before he was done and stuffing away his pencils and eraser. He stood, brushed himself off and looked at his graphite-smeared fingers from shading for a moment before shrugging and passing the completed sketches to Sherlock.

"I hope these'll work out," he said, shouldering his bag once more. They were nearly to ground level again, and so far it didn't seem like the rain would be letting up any time soon. It didn't necessarily bother Greg, but considering that he had a nearly completed sketchbook on his person he was a touch nervous that it would get wet and be ruined.

ME: Sherlock held the spiraled book lightly, eyes jumping between the two pictures. He did this sideways head shake, that continued into a series of sways before flicking his gaze back to Greg. "Outstanding." The consulting detective was nearly in disbelief. The pictures in the first note book – the filled one Greg still had on his person – were incredible, but Sherlock wasn't expecting... He glanced back down at the drawings... This. Not this level of artful accuracy after one viewing of the men they'd interviewed. He was positive Greg didn't have an eidetic memory, but... perhaps the DI was simply skilled at recalling faces.

"This will be useful," was all Sherlock said as he handed it back. The pod had finished it's cycle, and was opening. There were a cluster of tourists waiting outside as the younger detective stepped out, while Greg hurried to stuff the art book into his satchel. When the DI finally emerged he was gripping his bag to his side, trying to shield it from the drizzle. He hadn't worn his coat to the flat earlier...

"Here." Sherlock shrugged off his own and held it out to the side. He'd been ushered out of the way as Greg was now being, so other passengers could board. Included with the jacket, was the bunched up red of Sherlock's scarf. He'd look silly wearing it without a coat.

PARTNER: Something in Greg warmed at Sherlock's brief praise. The detective was one of the few people to see his art, and it was rather nice to have someone appreciate his skill. When it wasn't erotica, of course... He really did enjoy drawing in general, and to know that it would be of use was a bit uplifting.

When Sherlock was handing over his coat as they were ushered and practically pushed out of the path of the stream of tourists taking their place, he was surprised to find himself suddenly laden with the man's coat. He blinked before glancing at the detective questioningly even as he used the thick wool to wrap his bag safely. He would have worn it, but while Sherlock wasn't that much taller than him, Greg was still built stockier and with broader shoulders than the thin and lanky consultant.

"Thanks," he said, not minding being rained on himself so long as the drawings were safe from harm. He carefully placed the red scarf in his bag for safe keeping, and for a touch of insulation... just in case. "Where are we off to now, then? Back to Club 49?"

ME: "Not quite yet," said Sherlock, biting back his frustration. Greg hadn't given off any tells, again. And while the consulting detective had offered his coat to the man out of kindness, he was a bit miffed at the lack of reaction to it. Was Sherlock doing something... wrong? The DI had drawn them, having... He squinted his eyes to blank his thoughts.

As the two trudged back out to Westminster Bridge the rain picked up, blowing at them hard from behind. By the time they reached the curb their backs were soaked, and Sherlock stepped a few paces away to shake his head like a wet dog.

The detective's huddled up against the building to their right. There was a small ledge protruding from the structure that they could dry off under. Not many cabbies would take them like this, and the consulting detective didn't want to chance getting further drenched in an attempt to find one that would...

He made some quick calculations. His purple button up clinging tightly to his back, and at his shoulders. The water had migrated a bit to his chest where the cloth also stuck firmly. It was see-though at all of those places... the distinct outline of his ethereal form showing plain as day. "We should have enough time for..." he began, and turned to look at Greg.

PARTNER: The rain had picked up to the point where gut instinct told Greg that they'd be standing there for at best, a short while. It wasn't the best of conditions, but he'd been in worse while chasing down suspects. There were quite a few moments on ice that stood out in mind... but none of those moments had been when Sherlock was around to deal with the effects of the heavy rain.

Such as see-through clothing.

So far Greg had felt like he'd done an admirable job of keeping his attraction and fantasies of the man a secret. Having his drawings revealed hadn't been a high point in that growing span of covert attraction... Especially when they hadn't been the somewhat mild kisses or simple touches, but the full on submission fantasies he had about the man... and it was incredibly embarrassing, and thus far he'd hoped to just forget about the fact as best he could and move on. Even 'Mother Nature' seemed to be conspiring against him, however, as when he glanced up at Sherlock when they stopped, and saw that the soaked purple shirt that the detective was wearing was leaving little to his imagination, the DI went scarlet and quickly looked away. Anywhere else but at Sherlock and the rather attractive and utterly gorgeous body he could now, actually and finally see without having to try and imagine the details.

As it were, Greg was barely aware of what Sherlock was saying when he began to speak. The DI was far too occupied with his embarrassment of having stared for several moments too long, and to the fact a white hot stab of desire and longing had gone right through him at the sight of what he was utterly convinced he'd never be able to have.

ME: The younger detective shook his damp hair again before stepping over to Greg. He leaned in and around to get a view of the mans face, then froze. Greg had seemingly been ignoring him. He had spouted off the rest of their plans – one more stop before camping out at Club 49 to wait for Greyson – though the DI had been seemingly staring off the other way, apathetically.

Greg hadn't yet noticed Sherlock, his eyes were glazed over with the most apparent of blushes upon his clean shaven face, and... The consulting detective went slack-jawed as his stared, taking in the most extreme of tells, then cast his eyes downward at himself to sort out why Greg was... /Oh./ Sherlock tugged the shirt away from his collar bones. That was why.

PARTNER: When it slowly became obvious to Greg that Sherlock's peeking around at him was because of the obvious flush dusting his face, he awkwardly cleared his throat. There went all that work straight out the window yet again. If he were honest, he was wondering why Sherlock was still letting him follow him about when it had to be obvious by now that he was attracted to him. If his tells were hard to read, however, then Sherlock's were impossible to. Especially for Greg.

"I uh... We should probably get going then," he said, trying to break the awkward moment even when he really didn't have a clue where they were going, or what they'd be doing after tuning the man out. The fact that Sherlock seemed to have caught on to why Greg was acting as he was didn't help in the slightest, and the efforts to fix the issues weren't really helping. As soon as they went back into the rain it would only make more skin visible....

ME: "The weather should lighten up soon..." Sherlock eyed the sky. He grabbed at his phone to tap though an application to confirm his suspicions, and in a few minutes he was right, the downpour had eased again into a drizzle. Even so, they were still quite damp, and not yet prepared to hail a cab.

To hurry matters along, Sherlock pulled at the back of his shirt. Gripping it away from his body, and wrapping both arms around to ring it out. He looked over at Greg as the water splashed onto the concrete... The DI was just standing there... rigidly, now. Maybe Sherlock shouldn't have peeked at him. But, how could he have known?... It's not like he paid much attention to his appearance, or how it affected other people. He could read it pretty well now, when others gave off signs of interest, but... He was scarcely interested in people, 'that way...' In fact there were only two, that he could recall. Only two people in his entire life that he'd ever had those kinds of feelings for, and one of them hadn't reciprocated...

"Here." Sherlock gently repeated his actions with Greg's suit jacket. He could feel the pepper haired man stiffen straight at his touch, but hoped that somehow this would show him he wasn't offended. That he wasn't put off by the mans attraction to him once and for all, and that maybe things could return to some kind of normalcy. Or, maybe Sherlock was still an idiot when it came to human emotions. And maybe this was some sort of violation...? Suddenly, the younger detective could feel his muscles tightening up all the same.

PARTNER: Greg was pleased to know that the rain would lighten rather than get worse. He'd just been about to start easing himself into relaxing again when Sherlock was reaching out and touching him. The effect immediate as he stiffened and tried to think of something to say, but words failed him.

It was rather harmless, if not surprising. Really, the only thing wrong was the invasion of personal space and Greg's body seeming to think it was okay to react to the closeness. Self-control alone saved him at least that embarrassment as he started thinking of anything else than what was going on, as Sherlock got rid of the excess water. What was Sherlock even doing? Was he trying to reassure him? Did the man even realize what he was putting the DI through? Were there ulterior motives?...

Finally, having just gone through the ringer of stress multiple times in one day and just wanting to know for sure what he was in for – Greg acted. "For Christ's, to hell with it," he muttered before snatching at the front of Sherlock's damp shirt, pulling him forward and down so he could reach to press his lips to the man's own... It was idiotic. Christ, did Greg know it was idiotic and that he was probably just ruining what work relation and friendship they /did/ have, however rocky by doing this at all... but it felt good. It felt fantastic even to finally touch Sherlock Holmes, let alone kiss him, outside of fantasy and the realms of a bloody drawing. He released younger man after a moment, and promptly began to panic as he ran a hand over the back of his neck.

"S-Sorry..." he stammered, making to look away again as he waited for the explosion.

ME: It started as a slow blink. An impossibly slow blink with eyes lingering closed as Sherlock Holmes stood there, totally and completely baffled... In a very fluid movement, the man lifted an arm and placed finger tips lightly to his gaped mouth. He'd been kissed in broad day-li... Well, not 'day-light,' but broad day, along a busy street of passing cars and taxis. Along a busy sidewalk majorly of tourists going to and from, under umbrellas. In fact, a couple teenage girls giggled in whispers as they walked by.

... That, was the first time the consulting detective had ever been kissed by a man... It was different than the kisses he'd shared with Irene Adler. They had locked lips the evening he rescued her from the beheading. She was his first real kiss. He'd been kissed on a couple other occasions – once during a very idiotic truth or dare he'd been caught up in at Secondary school. Then another time when a girl at Uni surprised him from around a corner... Oh, right. Janine too, he'd nearly forgotten. This, though... Greg's lips, were tantalizingly different...

If he were being completely honest, Sherlock did find men – at least some – attractive. Being the genius he was, he'd always had an open mind for such things. Never let society deter him, even if his preference was for women. That was something many failed to grasp about bisexuality. The term didn't define an equal attraction to the sexes, just that an individual did, indeed, find both alluring... Still, for Sherlock, it was rare to find any person appealing face to face. He watched porn sure, – straight porn (and rarely, but occasionally gay porn) – to quell his urges. But most people in person were too... intellectually inadequate to peek his interest. Irene Adler was the only woman that ever had, and John Watson the only man.

John Watson, like Greg Lestrade, also had very thin lips... There was a constriction in his chest at the thought. Still, and unfair as it was to Greg to compare them, the consulting detective couldn't help himself. He had felt things for John like no other, and every time, every damn time people had paired them... John ranting and raving and denying his being gay whenever he was present for it. It hurt. It stung and stung deep, and Sherlock had burred those feelings down hard, and now suddenly... Suddenly, they were pooling to the surface with the feeling still warm on his lips.

"Erh-um... Um..." Sherlock turned his head, taking in every sight and sound and smell. He couldn't elevate his jaw, he couldn't manage to do anything. He just stood there, staring out at the passing cars in the ever mild drizzle. Then finally, let his hand fall back to his side.


	2. "A Slice of Life and Crime Pt. 2"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Written as an RP originally prompted by 'Partner' / 'DarkReaperss' on Omegle.))
> 
> ***If there are any errors I apologize. I went through and edited, but may have missed things here and there.***

PARTNER: 'Idiot' was the word that kept repeating through Greg's mind with little add-ons occasionally making things interesting. 'Fucking idiot' was a good one too, which also reoccurred it's fair share. Unlike fairy-tales and storybooks, films and media, kissing the person you were attracted to wasn't the way to bounce merrily into a relationship or romance. Quite the opposite, really. It was the way to scare a person off and make them question their association with you, and everything they'd previously thought. It wasn't like his drawings hadn't already done that...

It was worse, because the DI knew Sherlock wasn't attracted to people. At least, he wasn't attracted to a great many people, and for all he knew he didn't actually like men all that much. Oh, he knew Sherlock had been interested in John. The detective had been very interested in John, and the good doctor had been too adamant on 'not gay,' and the fact (which he likely believed) Sherlock could never actually love another human being, to ever notice what had been so obvious to Greg, who'd known the man long enough to see the difference in how John had been treated. Now here he was... Ruining everything because he was letting impulse take control.

Swallowing, he glanced up at the rain and dug into his bag for the sketches of the men that Sherlock had wanted. He pulled the book out and wrapped it in Sherlock's coat before handing it back to the man wordlessly. Damn the other drawings he'd spent so much time on. He didn't care at the moment. He just didn't want to be huddled against the building with a man he'd likely never get over after this long, and also the man he'd just kissed and made a mess of things with. Christ, he was an idiot.

ME: Sherlock stood quietly. He stared at the bundle that'd been forced into his hands, deducing that the book – new book – with the criminal sketches was balled up inside it. Greg was walking away. What was he supposed to do in such a situation?... The girl at Uni who'd done a similar thing, had also took off after. Sherlock hadn't followed her, and she avoided him from then on. The petite little blonde even went so far as dropping a new class if when she showed up, Sherlock was present. She'd graduated a year late due to that...

The consulting detective opened his mouth, but nothing audible followed. He truly was at a loss, and felt... insatiably guilty for it. Still... Sherlock bounded after the DI in a hurry. His dress shoes stomping into a puddle as he caught the cuff of Greg's jacket, and gripped it firmly. Still... he couldn't just let the man leave like this.

PARTNER: When Greg felt his arm stopped by someone latching onto his sleeve he turned and just kind of stared at Sherlock. The consulting detective wasn't the only one with walls, and Greg's had shot up to try and hide his own guilt and discomfort. Try being the operative word. He shifted in his spot, because he wasn't about to haul the man down the street after him and play stubborn quite like that.

"L-Look..."Greg paused when he stammered to regain himself. "Sherlock, I..." he trailed off again. Teenager. He was a bloody teenager rather than a full grown adult male who was a bloody DI. A DI who had chased down criminals, been in far too many life-threatening situations, and worked with Sherlock Holmes. The latter of all of that being the issue, apparently. Now he wasn't even sure what to say. There wasn't exactly a whole lot to be spoken after that except for maybe a coolly delivered, 'I'm flattered, Lestrade, but...'

Even as they stood in the rain, Greg knew his drawings were likely being touched by the water that pattered onto his bag steadily. Soon they'd ruin, and the papers might even stick together and rub off on each other. It was an absurd thing to be upset over considering everything else, but he found himself actually and sincerely worried about the drawings and sketches despite himself.

ME: "I know," Sherlock blurted after a long drawn out pause. "I know, and I'm not... upset. I'm..." The man jarred his head. He didn't want to expand upon that thought. It would be beyond words wrong to stammer out how he felt. How a flash of John had flit into his mind during that kiss, and how it lingered with the sensation left behind on his lips. Still, god, bloody still... The feelings coursing through the younger man were insistent. What the hell had happened to him? Why was he feeling so conflicted?

A car horn honked loudly then as it passed them by, startling Sherlock enough to let go of Greg and snap his head to stare after it. /Oh, for gods sakes./ As if the two needed anymore harassment than they were already putting one another through.

"Greg," Sherlock stuttered, returning towards the DI. "Can it wait?" he asked tentatively. He had no explanation to give the man now, and dear god he couldn't tell him the truth, least not at the moment. There was also the fact that they were still in the middle of a case – an important case – and coming from himself this would probably come off as a genuine excuse, "I'll give you time later... But for now, we really ought to focus on catching this murderer."

STRANGER: "Yeah, I know… yes." Greg managed after a moment. Of course he does this in the middle of a case too. "What do we need to do, then?" The DI merely did his best to shove it away again, pretend like he hadn't just gone and made an idiotic mistake. It wasn't overly hard to focus back on their murderer… the one who may or may not be a man that would recognize him.

ME: Sherlock felt... Well... It almost disappointed the younger detective. Greg's ease at slipping back behind the wall he'd been encircled by all day. It wasn't that easy for Sherlock, and suddenly he wondered what irked him more. Greg returning to normal so quickly, or himself not being able to. /God./ He shot a quick glance at the DI's lips. /God!/ He spun toward the street and made steps for the curb.

Sherlock kind of just stood there for a minute. Curling the bundle of clothing against his chest as he bit at his thumb. It was remembering that Greg had asked him something that brought him out of it, though he didn't look over, "One more stop before Club 49," he reminded, then recalled he'd said that when Greg wasn't listening. /So be it.../ He was far too worked up to be 'kind' at this point. The consulting detective was flustered red, and hiding his face... He took deep quiet breaths in an attempt to calm himself, sucking in bits of moisture.

It took a cough that nearly dislodged the wrapped up art book to really put things back in perspective. As Sherlock fumbled for it, the pictures inside the other book flashed through his mind and he nearly sighed. He was being foolish... /Not. John. Watson./ he thought to himself, and could finally look back to Lestrade.

"I'll hail a cab..." he muttered, lifting his free hand.

STRANGER: Greg wasn't entirely set for resuming the work he and Sherlock had started for this case. No... he was far from it, really. If it were anything other than a case like this involving a serial murderer that had, so far, put nine known bodies in the morgue... then maybe he wouldn't have been so quick on forcing himself up into his little inner padded cell where he kept everything in, and hidden from view.

Since he hadn't exactly been paying attention before, when he was fairly certain Sherlock had taken the time to explain everything once, Greg simply nodded at the vague answer of 'one more stop'. There had been enough damage done, and while before the DI had been leaning towards revealing that he knew quite a bit about the Blood Mist's from personal experiences, he now had no desire to make things that much worse between them. Save that for after the case when they'd talk things out.

Hopefully, at least.

The cab that stopped for them at last was more than welcoming, and Greg slid in after Sherlock once the vehicle had slowed to a stop to allow them a ride. He let Sherlock give the destination not paying attention, and watched the streets pass them by as they went on their way. One more stop, then they'd go and look for Eric Greyson. Killer or not... that would be a fairly interesting meeting for the lot of them.

ME: It wasn't a long drive to St. Bart's, and actually if Sherlock had been thinking, he would have left the Eye from the opposite direction, as it was closer to the hospital. Though, if they had done that, they would have got soaked from the front, which may have caused Greg to react even 'worse,' than he had...

As the cab pulled up to the ambulance station, Sherlock felt himself stiffen. He came here all the time, had always come here 'all the time,' but after 'The Fall,' it was a place of sad memories for the brilliant man. It was the place he made John think he was... the place he parted from him at to destroy Moriarty's web, when the mad man had been fooling them all along regardless...

The consulting detective stepped out of the cab, coat and notebook tucked firmly under his arm. He made way for the cream colored building, Greg following, though the DI looked baffled at their being here, and Sherlock didn't bother to explain why they were.

Actually, if Lestrade wanted to complain at letting Molly in on his art skills, he'd remind the man of his own offenses... Sherlock paused at that thought. Really and truly, he wasn't bothered by the kiss, but he would use it to his advantage in the situation if need be. He just wanted to finish the case anymore. Molly Hooper might be able to help, and after their encounter at the sandwich shop, she would have likely returned to work.

STRANGER: Greg was sorely wishing that he'd just paid attention earlier, as he had utterly no idea as to why they were at Bart's. To see Molly, probably. That initial guess looking far more likely as Sherlock lead the familiar way to the morgue. The woman had mentioned earlier that she'd had the day off, but apparently Sherlock either thought she'd have come back, or simply planned to use the morgue for his own purposes.

The ride over had been awkward despite the fact it really hadn't been overly long or drawn out. It was simply that Greg was attempting to push things away and to keep from showing worry, but his fellow detective didn't seem to be having the same luck. Not that the DI blamed him, really...

ME: "Molly," Sherlock stated loudly, strolling his way into the morgue. The mousy woman was standing over a body, and looked startled to see the two men.

"Oh, hi, um," she mumbled with a nervous smile. "I'm looking over them now." Her eyes flit to Greg's. "How did you, know I'd?..." She stared back at Sherlock, then cleared her throat. No point in asking that... Over the years she'd become obvious to the man. There must have been some indication in her facial expression back at the sub shop, or something... He could read her like an open book.

"I need you to hold onto some artwork," Sherlock began, untangling the sketch pad from his coat.

STRANGER: Greg shifted uncomfortably in response, but he didn't say a word. It would only be the two portraits of their potential suspects, and after the incident earlier, did he really have any right to protest anything? He merely watched the man as the sketch pad was withdrawn, miraculously largely untouched by the rain. Sherlock's thick coat had done wonders in protecting the drawings.

If that was all they were there for, though... Molly said she was looking over the newest bodies, but if Greg was right then there wouldn't be much difference from before. The first corpses had been mutilated post-mortem, but the latest victims had started showing signs of being kept alive while beaten, tortured, etc. before finally having their tongue, eyes, and ears removed.

ME: "Take a good look Miss Hooper," Sherlock continued, passing her the spiral bound book. He waited as she flipped open to the sketches, and when she did her orb-like eyes widened.

"Sherlock, this is..." Molly gaped at the drawings in awe. Being sketches regardless, there was an outstanding amount of detail. Wrinkles, and wisps of hair... Small folds in the lips, and brilliant shadowing. "Did you draw these...?

"No," Sherlock replied. He glanced to his left for a moment, knowing Greg was a couple paces behind him, then refocused. "I need you to inform me if corpses matching these men turn up, tonight."

"Oh..." she muttered at his brevity. "All right..." She looked between Sherlock and Greg, unable to read a thing and simply smiled. She wasn't going to receive information by pestering, and even if she'd been able to stand up to the consulting detective in the past, there was truly no point in it right now.

"Text, Molly," Sherlock nodded before turning to leave. She knew that already, but he reminded out of old habits. Throughout the day he'd slowly been slipping back into his old M.O. – Direct, discreet, and... cold.

PARTNER: It was almost chilling how Sherlock had regressed throughout the day. At the start of it he'd actually been attempting to be personable (as much as Sherlock Holmes could be), and now the man was going right back to how he'd been when Greg first met him. Before John had pulled out some of his humanity.

The DI felt like he was to blame for that. Whether he actually was or not was irrelevant because he felt like he was. He sighed to himself, just soft enough to be inaudible, as he thanked Molly after Sherlock had already disappeared from the morgue. At this point he was resigning himself for taking on the position of 'useless lackey with a warrant card'.

ME: The cab was still waiting for them, and as Sherlock slunk back into the far seat sighed, "Club 49 Soho, Greek Street."

They had plenty of time. Time to return to the club and inform Clark of Sherlock's plan. Time for the former Blood Mists/informants – men who'd been offered lesser sentences for their assistance – to be slaughtered by Greyson, if he were indeed the killer, and appear on Molly's tables. They had until 5:30PM before the doors opened to patrons, and until 6:00PM before Greyson would show for his shift. In short, about forty-five minutes from now – that had been the plan. They were on schedule, and things were looking great for the case, for 'The Game...' So, why was Sherlock feeling so out of sorts?... Simply from a kiss? He didn't know, and he groaned out loud not caring who heard as Greg shrugged into the taxi next to him.

PARTNER: When they arrived at the club, there was notably more activity about than before. That was to be expected though, and Greg certainly felt out of place before they even stepped foot near the doors. It had been so long since the last time he'd been in a fully functioning club, and it wasn't quite to the standards of Club 49. More along the lines of back rooms with imitations of grunge rock bands alongside drinking, drugs, and the occasional police raid or two that ended with arrests of those less fortunate or just slow.

ME: Sherlock watched Greg as they approached the building, still feeling miffed and conflicted with his emotions while he tried to re-focus... Thankfully the band booked for the night – 'retro night' – played Jazz music. Club 49 was 18+ and many evenings they simply had a DJ. One of those pseudo DJ's that talked over the music playing from a CD. Maybe cut a song off here and there to start a new one...

Greg wouldn't stand out as badly amongst the crowd, and to be fair, Sherlock wouldn't either unless anyone recognized him. To help prevent that further, he'd texted Mycroft whilst up in the Ferris Wheel, and there was a man standing outside the club with dry cleaned clothes – casual wear for himself and Lestrade – that smiled to Sherlock as the detective waved.

It was of no concern to make the exchange in plain view. There were people milling about on the street, but it was far too early for Greyson to be around, especially if Sherlock's suspensions were correct. /Sod them,/ he thought of the criminals, knowing that Greg – as a member of the police force – wouldn't approve if he caught on. That was one of the principle differences between the DI and John. John cared nothing for 'baddies,' because he wasn't legally obligated to. Well, cared nothing for truly despicable ones at least, which both the former Blood Mists were...

Sherlock grit his teeth at the knowledge he had on the men... Those wastes of air and space that he'd 'read,' and researched on his mobile after meeting. The Asian man a was child molester, and the Irish one had murdered a woman when high. To the judicial system, catching a drug lord and shutting down his organization was more important. Still, those men shouldn't be wandering about freely. They'd had it coming for a long time, if what Sherlock thought was coming for them, was indeed coming.

"We'll need to change," the detective said to Greg, offering him the bag of broader shaped clothing – a navy blue shirt and lighter scarf, a pair of blue jeans, and a pale grey over coat. Sherlock turned back to Mycroft's subordinate and retrieved his own wardrobe replacement, frowning instantly at the contents. /And, sod Mycroft too.../ the consulting detective's features tightened. He was to be clad in a black leather jacket, synthetic grey t-shirt, jeans with light threaded seams, and... a grey and black stripped scarf.

The younger man scowled. "The hair dressers should allow us to use their bathroom." He gestured to the left and made way for the pink themed salon.

STRANGER: "Right..." Greg murmured, gazing at the parlor with something very close to contempt before trotting after Sherlock once more. When they entered, the smell of hair products hit him like a wall, and he sighed under his breath. His ex-wife had gone to a place similar to this. Thankfully not the same place... but similar. It didn't appear too busy – the only customer leaving as they'd come in – which was rather good as, with a few words, they were directed to use the bathroom in the back.

There was only the single room, and Greg let Sherlock change first. As he waited it gave him some time to think properly about everything a bit further without worrying about the man being right next to him. He breathed out softly. It was a bloody mess, really. Why he'd thought it would be a good idea to just go with what he was feeling was beyond him. Maybe that was the problem, and the reason his more erotic drawings were themed as they were. He never felt in control of himself around Sherlock.

He sighed again as he leaned against the wall across from the bathroom. It was under his breath as always, but a sigh nevertheless. If Sherlock was right about Greyson, then it was entirely possible that they could catch their killer and end this once and for all tonight. Greyson was smart, though. Eric was smart. Intelligent. He always had been, at least compared to the other thugs and gangsters on the streets at the time. He'd had friends and connections, and he knew quite a few of the people that made the coke the Blood Mists sold and were known for. It was part of the reason the DI had had the benefit of getting it so cheap when he'd wanted. The man, however, might still have some of those favors to call in, or a few goodies and tricks from already cashed in favors. It simply made Greg a touch cautious, more so than a normal serial killer would call for.

ME: A sigh. Sherlock emerged from the men's room done up in Mycroft's attempt at a joke with a sigh, feeling a blend of embarrassment, awkwardness, and 'gay.' /Mycroft.../ It'd been a running gag for the brother's for nearly a year now, starting back when Sherlock embarrassed the man in front of Anthea. They'd been pulling pranks since that night at Mycroft's posh abode. The night Sherlock had a few... – god they'd stooped to celebrations with one another – at Mycroft's something or other promotion party to the position of... the hell if Sherlock knew, or at least he refused to remember. He'd been in the habit of deleting facts that didn't concern or benefit him for years now, and with their long history of sibling rivalry, the younger Holmes couldn't quite let it go. Actually, some part of him loved their dysfunctional relationship. It had become more than clear to 'master's' at tells that they cared for one another deeply, and yet their little act had grown on them both.

Still... This outfit was.... "Greg." Sherlock locked eyes with the man, with a sort of pleading look. "Do you..." Oh, for gods sakes. He really shouldn't ask, especially after what had happened earlier but, "Do you think, that the red scarf... Could replace, this?" He lifted the striped material with contempt. It was draped around his neck and looked ridiculous; by far the worst part of the ensemble... /Dear, God.../ He'd just asked another man – another man whom had very explicit sexual desires for him – for fashion advice.

PARTNER: Despite himself, as Greg hadn't seen the other's clothes until then, he couldn't help but smirk and raise a brow. It was incredibly... flamboyant, if he was putting it lightly. Honestly, if Greg had been back to his roots it was the kind of look that would get someone mugged. Especially when it had the distinct look of someone trying to look like they were a 'bad boy'. In Sherlock's case it wouldn't look much better since he wasn't in his teens or early twenties.

"Dunno how this club'll work," he hummed, already reaching into his bag for the red scarf that still laid inside. "But you need to trade off." The red cloth was far better material and it laid nicer than the bulky mess that was the other one. He swapped them out and looked Sherlock over for a moment before shrugging.

"That'll do." He said simply, noting that Sherlock obviously wasn't comfortable with asking. Normally Greg wouldn't have showed any 'fashion' knowledge – he really didn't have all that much, only what he knew would look good from his younger days and some of that style never really left the 'scene.' The red laid better and popped from the grey shirt and black leather to give it more balance without being too, 'come-mug-me' in style. Sherlock's looks helped with that though. It turned him from 'wannabe' to 'don't-mess-with-me.' That much he knew well.

Without waiting further he took Sherlock's place in the bathroom and shut the door behind him to change – half wishing he had his old leathers and jeans if he was going to be dressing like this, yet at the same time feeling like that would be a step or two too close to his less than favorable past.

ME: As Greg swapped clothes a pair of younger women were whispering from the entrance of the salon, sneaking glances at Sherlock. They didn't know who he was, but they thought he was... 'adorable.'

The consulting detective was pondering how he could get Mycroft back, fidgeting in the awkward clothing, when Greg shrugged out of the bathroom, his own clothes folded up into a neat pile. The new outfit was... Sherlock quickly realized he had never seen Lestrade in casual attire. Even at the Christmas parties over the years, the older man had always dressed up, and... Suddenly the feeling of Greg's hands untying the atrocious scarf... then looping and tying the red one – /No! No! Not. John. Watson!/ Sherlock kept still, regardless of his buzzing thoughts.

"Well," Sherlock maintained eye contact, which was exceedingly difficult. The clothes Mycroft had prepared for the DI... Not only did they look like something John might wear, – well since he'd been with Mary, anyway – but it was as if they were tailored for the older man's body... No, they were. They fit perfectly. Form fitting... not too tight. Hugging at the right places, loosening at other's. The elder Holmes must have been observing them... Sherlock shut his eyes, picturing the street Greg had kissed him on. /There was a camera.../ Posted right on the corner of the building, pointing in the direction where they had been standing. /Why did there have to be a bloody camera?!/

PARTNER: Unaware to the shared thought process, Greg had been confused to find just how perfectly everything fit. Considering where it was coming from, he wouldn't be surprised that Mycroft Holmes would be able to get something tailored this well... yet at the same time it wasn't as if they had much cause to see each other face-to-face very often. Certainly not to observe his measurements, or however else the man might know how to have the clothes tailored... So when?

"All right?" he questioned, brow raised when he came out of the room. The clothes fit well, so they were comfortable enough to wear considering as much. He gave Sherlock a bit of a concerned look when the man seemed off and distracted – flustered, even. Sherlock wasn't ever one to be 'flustered'. He tried hard to keep his mind from running away with him as to why. That wouldn't be good...

ME: "Hey!" the younger of the Sherlock admirers shouted over to him then, which sent them both into a giggling spat about her doing so. They were employees at the shop, hair dressers, even if the younger girl was maybe nineteen at best. "That's a big change!" The girl was flushed red, staring between the two men, and slowly approached them through the empty salon.

"Alex..." her friend groaned after her from the entryway. She didn't have gripes about gossiping, though that didn't mean she wanted to mingle with the men who could be their father's, either.

"It's Alexis!" The dark haired girl corrected with a protruded tongue, grooming back her silky locks that hung straight down her back.

... Sherlock wanted nothing to do with this. He wanted to walk right out past them without a word, but the club was two doors down and he really didn't want to bother with a.) leaving and sneaking back later on, or b.) possibly running into them again as they may be headed there after their shits. "Yes, it is," he replied with flatly instead, as the first girl strode up.

"Where are you guys headed? Next door?" the second asked timidly as she too, made it over to the detective's.

PARTNER: Greg wasn't entirely sure what to think of the two girls. The one was practically the age of his daughter by now – estranged from him thanks to his ex-wife. Obviously he wasn't comfortable, but he didn't show it. He was strictly neutral, though in an oddly friendly sort of base so he gave off the 'I'm-not-rude-but-I'm-not-flirting-either' vibe. Not that it mattered. Sherlock was the handsome one that looked younger (though not overly) in his new attire.

ME: Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it... then glanced at Greg for help, then back to the girls... What the 'hell' was he supposed to say? They were attracted to him, clearly, especially the younger and bolder of the two. He couldn't be rude, not with the proximity to the club. Not when they could see him later and possibly blow the detective's cover...

"Sorry." The older girl could see Sherlock's fluster. "She just –"

"Shut up!" Alex snapped her head at the brunette – eyes wide and bewildered.

"Alex... they're probably ga-" The older girl froze... cut herself off with hands that rushed up to her mouth, and stared down at her feet. "I'm sorry..." she mumbled, face flushed and moisture threatening her eyes. "I'm so sorry." She rushed to the back with embarrassment, without a glance behind her as Alex clamored after in disbelief.

Sherlock went slack-jawed, head spinning to follow the youths as they began a muffled argument mixed with sobbing from the twenty-something year old, from the back room. Did he and Greg... Slowly the younger detective turned his head to stare. Did they look like... a couple?

PARTNER: To be honest, Greg hadn't really been paying all that much attention to how they might appear to other people. When the older girl, obviously the more self-conscious of the two, to the point where the DI nearly felt bad for the kid, insinuated and nearly said that they might by gay... It had him blinking a bit in surprise before he looked down at himself then to Sherlock. Did they really look like they were together?

They 'were' two men coming into a salon to change quickly. They looked like they planned on going out somewhere, and most guys probably didn't pal around with their mates and change in the bathrooms of salons. "Uh..." was all Greg could come up with at first before he glanced at Sherlock, and spoke lowly enough to not be heard over the at-times hysterical sobs. "Look... I know this might not be great after earlier, but if you don't want anyone hitting on you just go with what they're saying, yeah?"

It would be incredibly awkward to pretend like they were a couple after earlier, but if it kept Alex (and maybe even others) from trying to hit on Sherlock then it would be fine. It wasn't even about being jealous, but more that they were going after a potential killer and former gang member. They didn't need to be involving young kids just getting into their twenties in that sort of thing, and especially not when they could get hurt or in the way.

ME: With a long breath, Sherlock contemplated Greg's suggestion. The consulting detective hadn't picked up on anything in the mans tone. He didn't appear to have ulterior motives... Sherlock thought it over, coming to the same conclusions the DI had unknowingly. The outfit Mycroft procured for him shouted homosexuality as it were, and while they technically had enough time to go pick up another, the younger Holmes wallet was dwindling... After the hiatus, after John's involvement decreasing along with his discontinuing the blog... Sherlock hadn't been on many prominent cases. Also, he didn't want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of seeing him bothered. Also, there was Clark who already believed them to be a couple... Playing gay might work to their benefit.

Sherlock fluttered his eye-lids, glancing in the direction of the argument, then back at the man who'd been stirring up old memories and feelings... "Why not."

PARTNER: "Best get out of here, then." Greg prompted. Preferably before Alex and her friend could stop their bickering. They had a killer to catch.

Pretending to be a couple with Sherlock Holmes... Greg could tell that this would be an interesting adventure he was about set forth on. With the two girls busy arguing, it wasn't overly difficult to leave the salon and head towards Club 49. It was getting late, and the sky was darkening quickly. The sun already having set.

ME: After handing Mycroft's delivery boy their own clothes, the two men stood again before the glass fronted club. Clark was inside, chatting with one of his bartenders when he finally noticed the detective's.

"Sherlock Holmes!" the older man sounded pleased as he held open a door to let them in. "You two look incredible!" He clasped his palms together, with a playful wink and a smirk.

Sherlock explained the situation quickly, and Clark as before, was accommodating. He set them up at a table down and around in the live room – half the floor organized that way, as tonight's entertainment didn't explicitly call for dancing – and offered them something to drink.

"Water, thank you," Sherlock smiled at the manager, but was met with a disproving look.

"You've got to blend in, Mr. Holmes," Clark insisted, then turned towards Greg.

PARTNER: "Bloody Mary?" the DI requested. He wasn't really planning on actually drinking much if any of it, so it wouldn't hurt to have the alcohol in it. Besides, it was a bit better than just water so far as 'blending in' went. Especially when he'd seen quite a few people with them already. He wasn't that unobservant.

It was getting crowded quickly, but not to the point where it seemed utterly impossible to move about. Besides, if the dance floor wasn't going to be filled with a writhing mass, that could make things a touch easier.

ME: As Clark sauntered off, making his way through the ever increasing patrons towards the dance floor bar, Sherlock eyed him. The consulting detective began to steeple his hands then stretched out his fingers with a sigh. He couldn't be Sherlock Holmes right now, at least not in the obvious ways.

"What do you bet he's bringing us both hard liquor?" The younger man leaned in towards Greg with rolled eyes. He had to move closer to be heard, as the room was buzzing with chatter.

PARTNER: "Twenty quid," Greg chuckled, looking back at Sherlock. It felt odd being in the club, and true it wasn't quite like the places he'd gone, but it was easy enough to relax a bit and not look like a DI. That was the important bit, really.

"What's the plan, anyway?" he questioned, leaning a tad forward as well so they weren't shouting that information out. He meant of getting Greyson alone without tipping him off right away, or causing a scene with a potential killer.

ME: Sherlock fidgeted a little. Really, his plan was rather simple... As simple as texting a murderer cross streets and waiting to see if he'd show up. Well, 'that' had also been partially to prove a point about John's limp, but regardless... His plan, as it were, was to observe Greyson. Observe and wait for Molly to confirm the sketched informants dead. To have Greg arrest the man on suspicion for their murders while Sherlock went about proving he'd done it. It wouldn't take him long.

"Um," the consulting detective muttered... As a police officer, the DI couldn't condone that plan, though it wasn't as if Greg had a soft spot for criminals. When Sherlock threw that American out of his window, after retaliating considerably for his harming Ms. Hudson, the older detective had chided a bit, but left it at that. Surely, he would care even less for a child rapist and murderer... But, still.

"I –" Luckily for Sherlock Clark was now returning, with as expected, two Bloody Mary's. As the pudgy man placed them to the table he could smell a considerable amount more of vodka than should be in them, and momentarily frowned before thanking the owner reluctantly.

PARTNER: Greg thanked the man as well when he came back, barely hiding a touch of a grin when he stirred his drink and the smell of liquor wafted up from it. He'd been betting on something like that. When Clark disappeared again, he looked back to Sherlock with a raised brow. The DI sipped at the Bloody Mary for the taste, but didn't drink much more than barely a mouthful. This wasn't the time to be drunk on a case.

"You were saying?" the DI prompted. If the plan was literally to go up to Greyson and drag him out by the ear they might have a problem. While they sat, Greg had been surveying the room for any recognizable faces. So far, there hadn't been any. At the same time, however, he knew that Greyson wasn't a pushover in his own right. The man had been quick, and if he was taking down some of these people there had to be something on his person to sedate them. They'd been waiting for tox reports to say exactly what, if anything.

ME: "It's nothing clever," Sherlock said evenly, reaching for the high ball glass and taking a small swig. What a cock Clark had been... Everyone else's were in the form of cocktails... So much for 'blending in.' Sherlock was betting on the fifty something simply wanting to see some, 'action.' He took another sip while giving the man a sarcastically pleased look from across the room. The pervert waved back with a wink. Of course he did...

PARTNER: Greg only hummed. "What you think's clever and what I think is clever are on two entirely different levels," he replied. Someone socking Clark right in the jaw – that would be clever right about now. Sherlock's deductions were clever. The plan couldn't be that bad, surely... Or it was something that the younger man thought he wouldn't approve of?...

His eyes narrowed a touch. "Sherlock..." he started, voice dropping in the beginning of a disapproving tone.

ME: Sherlock stiffened, taking a larger portion of the tomato flavored liquor into his mouth. Why had Greg gone and improved at his deducing things? It was so much easier back when he was clueless, barely solving 1 in 10 cases for himself, if that. "What?" Sherlock coughed a bit, choking down his slurp of bitter drink. He looked straight outward instead of at the DI.

PARTNER: "One, don't drink like that. You know I know about your bloody 'stag night' with John, and you're a sodding lightweight," Greg said, smirking a touch despite himself before growing serious again. "Two, I'm not an idiot and I've known you for this long... I'd think you'd tell me what you were planning, because you 'not' telling me? It means you're doing something you think I won't want you to, and might intervene on."

ME: The younger detective rolled his eyes, wetting his lips with his tongue and tapping long fingers against the glossy wood of the table. Greg was right, but he hadn't figured out just what the man was up to. At least not yet. "Don't worry about it." He quickly took another drink. "About both of those things." He really didn't like the mixture but he hadn't quite the nerve to try and lie to Greg at this point, and drinking it sort of served as a nervous tick, and... How could he possibly get the DI to back off?

Slowly Sherlock's eyes panned over to the man, making brief eye contact, then revolving back towards the crowd. "We're supposed to be playing 'gay,' remember?" He slid a smooth palm into the DI's. "Worry about that." He wasn't sure what the reaction would be, but hopefully it would buy him some time.

PARTNER: Greg's narrowed eyes widened a tad when Sherlock slid his hand over his own. After a moment, they slitted again even as he smiled sweetly. Bit not good. "If you don't tell me, I'm going to 'play gay' by snogging the hell out of you," he murmured, voice not matching his sweet smile but certainly matching his eyes.

"Do you know what I think when you don't tell me something, Sherlock? It makes me think of when you set fire to a flat to smoke out a killer, or when you nearly jumped from a window after a killer to 'save time', and until you tell me I'll keep expecting the worst."

ME: With a breath, "You'll do no such thing." Sherlock referred to Greg's threat, gesturing to Clark with his head. The club owner was watching them like a hawk, only glancing to the employee he spoke to for increasingly brief moments. "If you're not an idiot, you wont want to make a scene and spoil whatever it is, that I am planning." The grip he had on Greg's hand tightened for a second, before he turned his palm and laced fingers with the man.

PARTNER: "Well I dunno," Greg retorted. "You're pretty fond of saying I'm an idiot, so maybe I want to act like one... C'mon, Sherlock. Just... trust me when I say I need to be in the loop here." For all he knew, Sherlock was the one that was going to be doing something idiotic and if Greyson was the killer then they couldn't afford that... Especially if the man had friends that would know Greg somewhere in the club.

ME: Before he could respond, the abrupt sound of drum symbols crashed into the space, startling Sherlock from his little tat with Lestrade. The Jazz band had taken to the stage, and their front man hopped up the small elevation with a mic in hand. /Greyson.../ Sherlock dropped palms with Greg, eyes shooting over to the sound booth. It wasn't him behind the panels... The consulting detective stared the replacement up and down, eyes narrowing... This man, was a last minute stand in.

Sherlock shoved from his seat and pushed through the mob towards Clark, without so much as a word.

PARTNER: Greg looked over 'Greyson' in confusion for several long moments before realizing Sherlock had even gone. Once the realization was made, however, the DI hopped up to make his way after the other detective.

ME: Clark was still near the bar, oblivious to Sherlock's approaching as he now was just watching the band. The consulting detective popped up in front of him with upturned palms and the man jumped, startled. With people standing, he hadn't been able to see over to where the detective's had been.

"What's wr-" Sherlock spun the owner towards the sound booth to interrupt him.

"Who is that?" the younger man snapped, shouting as he shoved a finger in the direction of the awkward twenty-something fiddling with sliders.

Clark was considerably shorter, so he had to lean a bit and stand up on his tip toes, but when he caught a glimpse of the replacement his brow furrowed, "I'm not..." he began but Sherlock shook him, prying. "Oh..." Clark glanced up at Sherlock sheepishly. "My assistant manager had mentioned... someone was calling out, but, he knew a fill in. It didn't dawn on me that it might be Greyson. H-he's never missed a shift before, I promise Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock dropped his palms from the man with a sigh. Had Greyson caught on, somehow? The consulting detective was positive he hadn't been milling about before the club opened... "Is your 'assistant manager' here?"

"I'm afraid not... He called to inform me of it..."

Clark was useless. This assistant manager of his was the show runner here, and Sherlock needed to have a word with him.

"What's his number?" The consulting detective insisted hurriedly.

PARTNER: Greg didn't get quite caught up. He was stopped by a rather tall man who looked at him with piercing eyes. It took the DI several seconds longer than was good to recognize the tattoo on the side of his neck, before he was being ushered aside and back out of the club.

"Lestrade," the man sneered as he shoved Greg back against an alley wall. Christ, what was the name again?... It'd been too long to remember properly, but that tattoo? It was standing out. The top of what was a thick, black tribal design. The man had been a Blood Mists enforcer... One that Greg had practically put behind bars after seeing the man murder some poor teen who'd thought he was a cool hotshot after leaking information. 'What' was the name? And what in the hell was Sherlock doing?

ME: Sherlock retrieved the number, whipping his head around to find Lestrade whom was taking his sweet time... The man wasn't in the room. Sherlock stood on the rungs of a bar-stool to get a better look. He was definitely, not here. Then... where? Upstairs? No. He wouldn't have. Out back? Sherlock rounded the bar to the hallway, pushing through the lines at the bathrooms – Greg wasn't in line – and making his way to the stair case that had a 'EXIT' sign hung above it.

PARTNER: A groan slipped through the DI's lips as his back connected with the wall. It had been awhile since he'd last gotten the shit beat out of him, if he wanted to put it eloquently. It was the best way to describe what was happening, at any rate. Caught off-guard as he had been by the last person he'd expected to ever see again, it was no surprise that he wasn't standing much of a chance.

A kick to the stomach had Greg coughing, but he used it as his chance to curl his torso around the second blow aimed there. He twisted his body viciously and managed to throw the other man off balance, to send the larger of the two crashing to the ground while he fought to catch his breath.

ME: The door burst open, revolving hard enough on it's hinges to creak the metal loudly. "Greg!" Sherlock tore off his jacket at the sight of what was transpiring. If there was one thing, one thing, that truly pissed off Sherlock Holmes, it was someone he cared for being hurt.

The taller – far more muscular than Sherlock – assailant was pushing himself to his feet now, and the consulting detective readied himself. Sherlock couldn't pack as hard of a punch, but he didn't need to. He was fast, and he was clever. The man came for him with a right straight and he dodged, whipping out an arm to catch the man's free hand, and twisting him into a thumb lock. Sherlock had him bent over in an instant, a palm putting firm pressure on his elbow. A strike at this angle would force the joint inward.

"Care to explain?" He shot a look at Lestrade, wanting to beat the bastard he held onto, but waiting to hear from the DI first.

PARTNER: "Used to be a Blood Mists," Greg managed, nodding to the to-be-named former gang member as he got his breath back. He wasn't an awful fighter per-se, but he didn't know much outside of how to throw a solid hook and throw someone off balance. He used the wall to get up to his feet, both of his lips split open. They weren't too bad off though, just enough to bleed.

Meanwhile, the aforementioned man had dropped to one knee to further attempt to relieve the pressure on his elbow. His face was flushed with pain, and he was likely still a bit out of sorts from cracking his head against the ground earlier.

ME: "And... you know that... how?" Sherlock leaned down on the man, threatening to break his arm but also acting on his frustration with Greg. The DI had some explaining to do. Even if the man had grown skilled enough at deducing to pick that off the offender, that didn't explain why the scum bag had dragged out and attacked the older detective...

"And," Sherlock muttered to the criminal. "What about you? How do you know you your victim?"

PARTNER: Greg, as it were, didn't have time to answer.

"He's a fucking snitch," the man spat, half yelped really as more strain was put on his arm. The DI's jaw tightened as any excuse he'd been ready to come out with was pointless now.

ME: "Hmm..." Sherlock cocked his head, leaning in just nearly enough as tears tore out from the criminals eyes. "You say that as if it makes 'you'... better." The consulting detective was itching to snap the mans arm, but refrained. Doing so would only delay his questioning and arrest with an unnecessary hospital visit. "Greg," Sherlock started. "You've got cuffs in your bag, use them then call your people." The younger detective kept hold of the man even after his wrists were bound.

PARTNER: With Sherlock preventing the other from going anywhere, it was plenty easy to cuff the man and make a quick call for someone to come and pick him up. He really did need to remember that name... Michael? Matthew? He was pretty sure it started with an 'M'.

About ten minutes later, and the criminal was being carted off to leave Greg and Sherlock to hang back – oh how his department slid on procedures when Sherlock Holmes was involved...

The DI wiped the blood from his chin and lip while avoiding the other's gaze.

ME: "And exactly when were you planning on telling me that you too, were keeping secrets?" Sherlock slowly tilted his head towards the DI, referring to Greg's insistent pestering that the younger detective inform him of the plan. The plan that was now at least partially off of the table... "I need to make a phone call."

Sherlock spoke with the tipsy assistant manager from Club 49, techno blaring from the background of wherever he was at – another club from the sound of it, ironically. The only information he had to offer was that Greyson had called in, said he was ill with something and couldn't make it. The consulting detective pressed the red 'End' button on his mobile with a sigh.

"So, as I was saying." The younger man began to walk, confident Greg would follow which he did. Sherlock knew Eric's address but going there now would likely prove pointless, as he still believed the man would murder the two informants tonight. They had time to kill while waiting on Molly, and there was a place near by that he wanted to stop at.

PARTNER: Greg sighed as he did indeed follow after Sherlock. The whole day had been a nightmare thus far... "When I was younger I ran around and did... a lot of things," he said, aware that his answer was vague but not really caring. "Some of the people I ran around with were Blood Mists, and when I started getting my act together I ratted some people out, and leaked information."

They were only going after a killer that targeted people like him... nothing too serious.

ME: Sherlock arched an eyebrow but refrained from turning towards the DI. It made sense under the circumstances, and yet was another bit of information he hadn't been able to read... Not that it should matter much longer. Greyson would be arrested some time later tonight... The case closed soon after, and Sherlock right back to his dull existence alone at the flat... He sighed. At least Greg would be safe with the killer caught.

"Are you fond of singing?" the younger man asked rounding out from the alleyway, though before Greg could respond a woman called out from down the sidewalk with an enthusiastic wave.

"Hey, you!" She trotted up to the men and threw her arms around the younger detective's neck. "Those are some, uh... odd threads." She pulled back snorting at Sherlock's clothing. "And no jacket? It's freezing!"

"It's nice to see you, too." Sherlock smiled at her warmly. The woman was tall, beautiful, tattooed with thick dark hair, and... a lesbian. Not interested in the detective what so ever, and while not particularly clever, was quite entertaining to keep company with.

"Who is this?" She stuck a thumb in Greg's direction, eyeing his split lips and raising an eyebrow. "I probably have something for that in the shop..." She glanced over to the karaoke place just one door over.

PARTNER: Greg blinked at the woman, unsure how he was supposed to respond to the latest spontaneous appearance. "Uh... that'd be nice, thanks," he ended up saying, running a knuckle over the split skin lightly to see if he was still bleeding. It would be best if he didn't look like he'd been beat in some back alley for the next week. He already knew there would be some heavy bruising on his torso after those vicious kicks... He was just counting himself lucky that nothing was broken.

ME: "No problem." The woman gave Greg a wink then stared back at Sherlock momentarily – eyes saying, /I want details./ "Anyway, I'm Jenna." She smiled a beat later, leading to her place of employment. 'Karaoke Box Soho,' read the sign above the entrance.

The three filed into the lounge, equipped with a bar and archway leading off to a compact kitchen. Jenna asked them to hold on a moment, dashing to fetch anesthetic and pain pills, and Sherlock glanced at the DI before plopping down on one of the faux leather booths.

The bass from the music vibrated throughout the walls from the back rooms, and Sherlock relaxed into the pleather. Luckily, he still had his reservation for tonight. He'd forgotten to cancel it this morning, too preoccupied with his discovery about Greg, and with the case...

As they waited for Jenna, Sherlock stared over at the DI's back, which jarred a memory from the afternoon. 'I'll give you time later... But for now, we really ought to focus on catching this murderer.' Ah... that. Here might be a good place to discuss, that.

Sherlock still lacked an explanation, but he'd calmed since the incident... He wasn't keen on telling Greg why he'd been flustered, or why he wasn't upset with him over the kiss... Still, a promise was a promise and he'd meant it. Plus, they'd inevitably have to discuss it anyway... and now the poor man was battered and bruised... The DI was coiling a bit in his posture, still feeling tender in the abdomen from the blows he'd received to it. That was plain as day to the younger detective, so why did he have so much difficulty reading sod all else?...

PARTNER: Greg introduced himself on the way over to the shop, then waited for Jenna to come back. He was sore, but he'd live. That was what mattered, really. With a sigh he ran his fingers over the back of his head. They just needed to catch their killer and have this case over with...

When Jenna returned with things to take care of his lip, the DI was focused more on the bottle of ibuprofen she had with her. He popped back two, then took care of his mouth and thanked the woman before finding his way over to where Sherlock had sat down.

ME: The consulting detective blinked at him, standing. "Um," he stared at the roof, then to Jenna mixing drinks behind the bar. "I had a reservation... still have one..." He shrugged, not knowing what the DI thought of them being here. He'd asked the man if he cared for singing, but his tattooed pal had interrupted them, and Greg hadn't had a chance to respond...

The consulting detective swallowed. Much like he assumed drawing was for Greg, singing was his secret stress reliever. He'd wandered over here from 221B one night, quite drunk, to first meet Jenna who was smoking on the curb. They had chatted for a while, mostly about Sherlock's feelings for John... How when his daughter was born, it all became real to Sherlock. How it finally sunk in that no matter what happened, he could never be with the man. Not that John had ever felt things of that nature for him to begin with, but that hadn't stopped the detective from hoping...

Jenna had invited him in after a while. Took him to a room that had freed up, and sung with him the rest of that night until closing time. From that point on, whenever the man was growing overwhelmed, he'd book a room. Even if the tattooed woman were too busy to join him, or was just not working, it calmed him to sing.

Suddenly Sherlock felt a pang of regret at bringing Greg over. What if the older man thought all of this was moronic? The younger detective wasn't sure he could take that after today...

PARTNER: Greg looked up at Sherlock as the man stood. Maybe it was just because he'd gotten in a fight not even half an hour prior, or maybe it was because he was mentally and physically exhausted, but it took him a few moments longer than it really should have to realize what Sherlock meant. Both with the earlier question and with booking a room. The detective actually sang. Planned to sing still, unless Greg was reading that wrong.

"Nothing wrong with singing," he said, corners of his mouth twitching slightly as he'd never have guessed the other man did. The violin, yes, but that was the obvious and shared hobby. If there was anything that he understood, it was something you enjoyed doing to work off the stress that had been built up throughout the day, or week, month, or even year. Especially if the outlet was specific; such as what Sherlock did to him, or for whatever reason Sherlock came to this place.

ME: "Good." Sherlock fought back showing his relief. "We can wait for..." he trailed off. He'd nearly just blabbed how this was a time kill while they waited on Molly's text. "Um..." He shook his curly head, strolling over to Jenna and extending an upturned palm. "Key to room two, please."

The woman glanced from Greg to Sherlock, then with a smirk, fetched it for him. "Yeah." She dropped it onto his hand. "And also, yeah." Her eyes flicked down to where Sherlock knew the monitors were, and she crouched to press the button that shut them off.

The consulting detective's eyebrows pulled inward, mouth gaping, but he was unable to retort in front of Greg. He elevated his jaw with a sigh out his nostrils, and shot Jenna a disproving look.

"What?" She shrugged. "Ohhh, yeah. Your drink." She played it off, sliding a mixture of vodka and sprite over.

"I, don't -"

"Yeah, you do." She winked.

Sherlock took it. Took it with turned in lips and set off ahead of Greg so that the DI couldn't see him fluster. What was with everyone pairing them today? It felt like John all over again, except... Except, Greg actually felt things for him...

PARTNER: As it were, the DI only heard about half of the exchange with Jenna as he wasn't trying to listen in, and most of it seemed to simply be knowing looks between people that had known each other for awhile. When Sherlock took off down a hall, however, the DI followed close behind. More or less because he didn't feel like staying out in the lounge by himself.

ME: "Can you hold this?" Sherlock reached over with the glass. Room two needed it's door hinges fixed, and the only way to open it was by pressing up the middle while turning the handle. Seriously, Sherlock could read a 'How To' on his phone and get the job done if he had the proper tools. This had been an issue for a month now, and he... The door opened normally and he blinked.

"Never mind..." he muttered, eyeing the crease of the entryway. He really should have looked before assuming.

The younger detective retrieved the beverage, entering the booth and dimming the lights. The little red dot that usually flashed on the security camera was no where to be found and Sherlock hoped Greg wouldn't notice. He sat. Sat at the corner of the double booth then reached for the little fold up table, dragging it over. This was... nerve wracking... Jenna literally was the only person besides himself to ever hear his singing. It was something personal, something he'd kept private. He took a swig of his drink as Greg shut the door, and joined him. Maybe this was 'not good.' Maybe this was very, not good...

PARTNER: Greg rose a brow at Sherlock when the man handed off then took his drink again. It seemed the other was a bit off his game, and as they stepped inside the room he was getting that impression increasingly. Sherlock was open and easy to read, and that was the largest tell of something going on because the detective was normally hiding behind a mask like Greg... and the younger man looked nervous and more than a bit flustered.

Not that the DI blamed him. This – the singing – was likely something that the man had never done in front of anyone. Other than Jenna, at least, though that was more just a guess on his part.

"Sherlock... If you'd like I can just... I dunno, wait outside? If that'd be better," Greg offered.

ME: Hairs prickled on the consulting detectives neck at the DI's words. No... that's not what he wanted at all. He was just... His heart swelled for a moment. Why was he doing this at all? He'd hardly been open with other people his entire life. Nearly any time he had he'd been rejected, in one way or another... It was easier to hide behind the lesser parts of his character. Not that they were untrue. But, it was less painful to be disliked for things that deserved being disliked for. For being rude, for being a show off, for being a smart arse... Anyone could be those things. Sherlock glimpsed at Greg, then down to his hands. The younger man did have a need for praise, for self affirmation, and he was intelligent enough that he could receive those things from people while still being awful. Even so... People could be intelligent while also being kind, while also being polite...

Sherlock had put up many barriers. Barriers that he loathed, but were easier to have. He'd been trying for some time now to peel them back. Tried desperately at John's wedding, but failed... He had pretended to not understand when people clapped at his speech, and when John had hugged him... His true self was far more mushy than he cared to admit... He had his quirks, like the odd experiments he conducted, like not flinching at the corpse of an innocent laying before him... He was different. His mind was far different than others, even outside of the realm of intellect, and being nice on top of it rarely served him well. It showed people weakness and they took advantage of it, poked fun at it... Some still did regardless, like Donovan for the longest time. Sometimes 'freak,' still did slip out of her mouth by accident... So, why was he in this karaoke booth with Greg Lestrade? He searched his thoughts. Searched his mind palace quickly while the older man waited on a response... Greg, he... Sherlock breathed. Despite his awful qualities, Greg still saw the good in him. Greg Lestrade who let him solve his cases, allowed him on his crime scenes when he could easily be fired or even arrested for doing so. Who could admit when Sherlock was superior at something. Who had faith that he could one day be a 'good man,' back when no one else could see it...

The younger detective wet his lips, then took another sip of his ice'd liquor. He was going to need it to get through this. "No..." Sherlock gently pat the seat next to him. "Stay. I'm fine."

PARTNER: Greg had known Sherlock arguably the longest. First meeting the younger of the two by literally pulling him, high to the point of fear of an overdose, out of a gutter and then letting the then-kid crash on his couch. Much to the chagrin of his wife, who'd he'd still been with at the time... She had never liked Sherlock – thought he was rude and a waste of space. Greg had always disagreed even before he'd found himself attracted to him, as that had come much later. Nevertheless...

With the ability to say he'd known Sherlock for so long, he'd also seen some of the man's highs and lows. The drugs, the standoffish behaviors, the walls, but those few times when the barriers came down and the other would grace the world with a small smile? It had always been enough for him to know the man wasn't some heartless maniac. He worried for him. He wanted to help however he could, and putting more stress on him really wasn't a goal in his life despite his actions throughout the day. So, when he was told he could stay, he sat reluctantly only because he didn't want to do something stupid and hurt the detective more...

ME: Sherlock cleared his throat, lifting the remote from the table to switch on the monitor. Karaoke Box had gotten flat screens recently, which made the lyrics easier to read. He took another drink. Not that he always sung in English anyway... Then another sip. Was this smart?... He began slowly scrolling through the catalog of songs. They had English, Japanese, and Arabic, plus one Korean song Jenna had downloaded and programmed in for them herself. It was a challenge on her part. Sherlock, as with everyone, bragged about his capabilities and she'd called him out on it. He'd mentioned once how quickly he could learn a language if he felt like doing so, and she spat out laughing. She hadn't expected him to learn the entirety of the Korean language, but made a bet that he couldn't phonetically learn the male portions of a duet, in one night. He took on the challenge... Sat up the rest of that evening in the flat with headphones on in his bedroom. Quietly following along with the Romanized lyrics... It was worse than attempting to learn the language itself... Like with English vocals, words were drawn out longer to fit melodies, pronounced in faux accented ways to better rhyme... Still, the very next day he'd sauntered into Karaoke Box, he knew it. He knew the lyrics to a very teenage Korean pop song... All of them. Not merely the male portions.

Sherlock wasn't close to the track yet, he was taking his time along with sips of his drink... which, like what Clark had given him at Club 49, was much stronger than the normal mixed portions used to serve patrons, he noted at the exceptionally bitter taste... It was half way empty when he neared the song, and while he was terrified, he was also somewhat giddy with excitement. Perhaps it was just the alcohol, mixed on top of the other alcohol from earlier, but he wanted to share this with Greg. Jenna, more than she was anything else, was blunt, and Sherlock couldn't count the number of times she praised his ability to sing. She had marveled over it that first night they sang together, and marveled even more when he sung sober. He had a lot of raw talent, apparently, and with time his voice had grown even stronger. He may be tipsy at the moment, very tipsy... but it wouldn't effect his ability to sing. He was confident, at least in that.

Sherlock stopped at the song. God, it really was a... 'K-Pop' track, he recalled Jenna calling it. A relationship tune written for teens... Greg might tease him... He started to look over, but stopped. Why couldn't he be more like Jenna?... The tattooed woman wasn't afraid to show herself to anyone. She was a... 'fan girl...' of K-pop, J-pop, American Pop... Sure, she enjoyed other genres as well, music more suited to her age group, but she was open. And that openness allowed her to enjoy things she might not otherwise... Okay, Sherlock wasn't truly sure if he would enjoy this song outside of the context he'd learned it in, to be fair... And for the most part he could only really call himself a fan of Classical music...

He'd been lingering on the track for a few moments too long now, he realised... Greg wasn't that dense. He'd be able to discern why, and no matter how clever Sherlock got with his excuses the older man wouldn't buy it. The consulting detective swallowed a gulp of his drink down, hard. Picked up one of the wireless microphones with shut eyes...

The song started off. Intro-ing with a few drum beats, then a short bit of instrumental... and then, he was singing it. Singing a song beyond ridiculous for someone his age to be singing, and singing it fluently without a hiccup. 

He continued on to the first female portion, lifting his eyelids for a moment to see that Jenna had updated the sodding lyrics to also display in English. He clamped down on his vision as he continued. /Dear, god.../ the translation wasn't fantastic, but it was blatant what the song was about now. Well, it was pretty blatant already due to the nature of its sound, but if Greg had had any doubt...

When the bridge came up – a rap that Sherlock had put his foot down on learning, as he refused to accept it (more like it drew the line for embarrassment,) – he stopped, let the instrumental play out by itself and mumbled, "I detest this part..." Usually Jenna rapped it, or he'd let it go if he were alone and wait for the final chorus... But at this point he couldn't muster singing the rest of the song, any longer. The moment he'd spoken up he'd stiffened, and was now sitting there with hunched shoulders, waiting for Greg's reaction... Hoping with every fiber of his being that it wouldn't be one of rejection.

PARTNER: He's definitely a lightweight. The thought passed through Greg's mind as he saw Sherlock getting a bit red in the face. Not entirely from embarrassment, though that was probably a factor as well. He sighed to himself as he just watched the man kick back more and more of his drink the longer he lingered on a single song in debate.

But when Sherlock started signing? Greg's jaw went slack, eyes widening a bit. Truth be told, he hadn't been sure what to expect to come out of Sherlock. Everyone and their mother could point out 'bad' singing without actually knowing a lick about it, but the detective was fantastic. Or at least Greg thought so. The words that came spilling out of Sherlock's lips were fluid and foreign, but a quick glance at the screen showed English translations that had the DI himself gaining a dusting of red on his own face.

"That... Christ, Sherlock, that's fantastic," he murmured, but he didn't think the man heard him. A little later into the song and Sherlock froze up again. Gently, Greg placed a hand atop of the other mans shoulder to give him something to stay grounded.

"You're amazing," the DI said, speaking loud enough to be heard over the music of the song Sherlock seemed to have abandoned. "Where did you learn to sing like that?" He let his real wonder and amazement colour some of his words, to help along the other's ability to believe that what he was saying, and the awe he was expressing, was real.

ME: It took him a few moments, the alcohol beginning to affect him in full force. But when Sherlock realized Greg's hand was on his shoulder, realised the words that left the DI's lips were of praise... Realised a plethora of things in his fuzzy state of mind, like... How John would have laughed at him. How he would have thought Sherlock was screwing around to show off. How anyone else that knew him besides Jenna – in the know – would have teased, and joked at his song choice...

Sherlock was abruptly overwhelmed. Moisture pooled in the bottoms of his eyelids, and his entire body went clammy and flush. He blinked away the tears that fell promptly to the backs of his hands, and against the stupid jeans Mycroft had sent him. Greg was... Sherlock felt dizzy. This overflow of emotions was surely attributed to the liquor... Greg was... Sherlock felt a lump in his throat. He was... What was the word he was looking for? God, the consulting detectives mind was blurry... 

Eventually the younger man turned to stare at the DI. He gazed at the browns of his eyes, trying to comprehend what he was feeling. Here Sherlock was... Drank too much alcohol, went and did something foolish... Except, the person before him hadn't taken it that way. Not even the person the detective had loved, still loved, would have reacted like this. /Oh, god./ 

It had to be the liquor. Had. To. Be. But all too suddenly Sherlock's brain was pulsating with the strangest sense of urges. Emotional urges, physical urges... Greg Lestrade wasn't John Watson, yet, in his current state of mind that was a wonderfully beautiful thing. The man before him had accepted him. The consulting detective had completely opened up, become vulnerable, and was accepted. And it was too much for the man to currently bare. So, he didn't bare it. Instead he let himself go, let himself be in the moment...

... And in a series of movements, found himself angled over Lestrade. Pressing down with his torso to cause the other man to fall back against the seat. He placed one hand on the connected length of the head rests for balance, and the other gently to the older man's face as he straddled him. He wasn't too drunk, however, to forget about Greg's split lips, so he moved his mouth elsewhere. Set his gape gently to the side of the others neck, then pressed.

PARTNER: At first Greg had been confused and concerned when Sherlock only stared teary eyed for several seconds, and he knew he wouldn't know what to do if the man started sobbing full on. But then the consulting detective was moving... and was climbing on top of him, and pushing him back against the seat as his lap was mounted.  
Instinctively, the DI's hands slid to Sherlock's hips to rest there lightly. Neither helping nor hindering at the moment as he tilted his head back in pleasure, then to the side to give Sherlock more access to a greater area of skin. It took a few moments, having been caught-off guard as he was, to realize just how bad this was. Sherlock was drunk.The alcohol could be smelt on his breath easily, and the other had been confused earlier about his show of kissing him... It certainly hadn't been confusion that would lead to something like this.

Guilt flared up. Greg wanted to be with Sherlock, but he didn't want it to be because Sherlock was drunk and in a booth at a karaoke bar. Sober in a booth at a karaoke bar, maybe... but he didn't want the other detective to wake up later, clear headed, and regret his decisions.

"Sherlock... Sherlock, you're drunk," he murmured, doing his best to ignore how good it felt to be able to touch the man at last. "You're going to regret this later, let's get you home."

ME: "I've seen those drawings," Sherlock slurred in protest, proceeding to tug at Greg's neck with his teeth. He /was/ drunk, /very/... drunk, but he wanted this. Wanted it bad. And he knew Greg wanted it too.

Truly? The hesitation the younger man had felt in the afternoon, in the rain, was gone. It was as if he'd been being awakened to the possibility of /this/ all day. Starting with his thumbing through the art-book, then the kiss, then after he'd finished singing, and now. Oh god, right now... Sherlock gasped a breath at Greg's neck, smoothing his palms down the older mans shirt. He tucked his fingers at the hem of the other's jeans, and pulled himself against the man so that their bodies pressed firmly together. He could feel the heat where their skin connected, he could feel it through their clothing even... Could feel the hairs that tickled the backs of his fingers, where the DI's pelvis began... He gulped audibly at the side of Greg's face as he pulled away a touch, heart threatening to burst from his chest. He was becoming aroused, visibly aroused – he could feel the quick swelling – and with that came a rush of insecurity, and...

Sherlock jarred upright. His leg was suddenly twitching where his phone outlined in his pocket, and he shrugged off Greg with a stumble.

"Hello?" he answered it, not bothering to check who was calling... far too preoccupied with his spinning away, and hoping the other man hadn't seen the beginnings of his erect–

"Um, Sherlock." It was Molly... and her voice came through the phone frantically. "I know you said to text, but..."

In that moment, the consulting detective began to re-sober. "...But?"

With a breath, "there's an extra body..."

PARTNER: Greg did want it. He wanted it so very desperately, but he didn't want to take advantage... he was saved by Sherlock's phone going off. It was muffled, but with their close proximity still allowed for him to over hear Molly, and the news had him up and standing. Sherlock, thankfully, seemed to have regained his senses as well.

The song ended at last in the background to leave them in silence save for the younger detective talking, and once the man was off the phone Greg gave him a look. "Morgue, then?" he questioned. "Then, we'll actually talk later."

ME: Sherlock nodded, trotting out from the room without a word as his erection quickly deflated... He had hung up on Molly, having an idea as to who that third body belonged to, and not wanting to believe it. But as they stepped into the morgue, and clomped down the short steps into the room lit brightly to see not only Molly, but Mycroft, standing before the row of corpses... Sherlock knew it to be true. Eric Greyson was on the far left, the tallest of the three cadavers.

"Ah, the 'detective's' are here at last." Mycroft grinned with a full set of teeth.

And now on top of everything else today, Sherlock had to deal with Mycroft knowing just what they'd been up to...

PARTNER: Greg had never really been a big fan of Mycroft Holmes, but he hadn't ever been one to have reason to speak or interact with the man too much for that to be a problem. When they walked into the room to see the elder brother already present and waiting however, the DI decided it wasn't going to be fun with the shark-like grin stretching the man's lips into a smile.

The corpses each had the mutilations that the killer had thus far stuck with. Torture, then cutting out eyes, ears, and tongue...

ME: Sherlock glanced to Greg, then Mycroft, then Molly. Molly was giving the detective's a sort of 'What happened?' look, but that was likely just because Greg's mouth was busted, and because Sherlock looked hungover, and because of their change of wardrobe... Mycroft hadn't seemed to have mentioned what he'd likely assumed, and now surely knew after seeing the two men.

"I'm assuming you're 'both' wondering why I'm here?" The elder Holmes strolled around the tables. Eyes fixing on Greg's for a moment, then shooting to Sherlock's with a gaze of severity.

"Yes, why?" Sherlock said mockingly, taking time to inspect Greyson's corpse as he waited for his brother to rant something off.

Mycroft had some reason for being here, which almost certainly included the case being of 'national importance,' and Sherlock felt like an idiot, a head spinning hungover idiot, that had been fooling around and missed something important. Something that would have told him Greyson wasn't their guy... But, what? The man had called out from work, then turned up dead. He was a former high ranking Mist's, no indication of ever being an informant. Then there was the man who went after Greg, he'd also been a prominent member, but an idiot if he was planning on killing the DI in an alleyway. So, not him. Who, then...? Sherlock couldn't narrow it down. It was reasonable to him that someone was being instructed, someone picking off informants, both formerly members and otherwise. The police would interrogate the man from Club 49, but it wasn't likely he knew the killer. It was more than likely just a coincidence that he'd been there, seen Greg, and had old feelings stirred up...

"Having fun?" Mycroft interrupted his train of thoughts and Sherlock glared up at him. His brother had seen the fluster and was now just teasing for amusement.

"Get on with it, Mycroft..." Sherlock groaned, stumbling dizzily to a chair and plopping down.

It'd been an impossibly long day, blended with a flurry of emotions and... occurrences. All of which were now too much for the headache pulsating at the detective's temples. But, when Mycroft continued, he knew the chaos was far from over. His brother began a rant, a short condescending rant about Sherlock being preoccupied while making subtle references toward Greg that Molly either wouldn't pick up on, or would write off as some sort of Holmes brother teasing. It wasn't until Mycroft finished his chiding, and steered toward his point that Sherlock really began to feel like an idiot... He'd gotten it wrong – all wrong. All of it was wrong from the start, and the most he'd gotten right were a few loose correlations. The Mist's former head had been killed in prison earlier in the evening, his murderer leaving not even a hint of a trace. This – Sherlock frowned at Greyson's corpse – was the workings of someone very clever, someone calculating and manipulative. Someone taking great care to make things appear one way, when they really were not... for some purpose or another.

"He's doing this to tease you," Mycroft ended with, and all pairs of eyes flit to the politician.

"He?" Sherlock's forehead scrunched together.

"The one who was closest to 'him'..." Mycroft stared at his brother, Sherlock's face contorting to bewilderment as he began to work it out. "Sebastian Moran."


End file.
